


Pomegranates + Honey

by Djibril



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Ace!Ford - Freeform, Asexuality, Asexuality Spectrum, Autism, Autism Spectrum, Dissociation, F/M, Hallucinations, Older Man/Younger Woman, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-31
Updated: 2019-06-16
Packaged: 2019-10-01 04:49:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 54,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17237738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Djibril/pseuds/Djibril
Summary: After over a year at sea, the Pines Brothers are taking turns with their adventuring locales. Stan gets to pick this time: a tourist-trap town in the off-season to relax, recharge, and maybe run a few bets in. Ford is on the hunt for a massive serpent beast, mermaids, Southern Bigfoot... and finds another type of mystery than he bargained for.





	1. Six Months in Paradise

**Author's Note:**

> I will always tag for you. If you want/need a tag, let me know. <3

Nearly two years had passed since they left the Shack. After the Stan Twins sent the kids home, they decided that it was time to travel and get themselves a boat- for real this time, one that was seaworthy. Soos was in charge of the Mystery Shack, and while Stan and Ford would always have a place in Gravity Falls, Stan felt proud to leave the house to Soos and his abuelita. Soos was as good as his own child.

It took months to find their boat, make all necessary repairs, have it registered properly, take first aid and safety training courses, and set out to sea. Naturally, Stan spent as much time relaxing and fishing as possible. He even caught up on some books he’d wanted to read but couldn’t with the kids with him over the summer. Ford was… being Ford. To compensate for three decades of absence and nearly another of anger towards Stan, he now hovered, quizzing Stan about events and people they knew, looking for side effects of McGucket’s memory gun. If anyone asked, his brother was starting to show signs of Alzheimer’s. Stan was getting mildly annoyed at being turned into Fords’ most recent ‘project’, but he understood that it was his nerdy brother’s way of being protective. Stan preferred to protect people by punching things. Finally, Stan convinced his brother to think about sketching some of the fish they caught, telling him what he remembered about different kinds of fish and pushing Ford off to look up ones they didn’t recognize. The man wasn’t exactly a walking encyclopaedia of marine life, after all.

Whenever the opportunity arose, Ford found excitement- or excitement found them. They fought massive squid-like creatures, met real sirens, and learned quickly that even when shouting “Pines! Pines! Pines!” they were not enough to challenge the vast mysteries of the Bermuda Triangle. Living like this, days passed by more quickly than expected, but they never felt old.

Still, the sea life had its own challenges. Keeping nutritious food on board that didn’t come in pill form was a peeve of Stan’s (Ford didn’t mind at all, rambling on about five forms of calcium, including a glowing variety supposedly found in the Australian coral reefs). Stan missed diner food, real drifter food sometimes- pancakes, greasy bacon, stacks of eggs and sometimes a burger dripping with onions, cheese, and pickles. Ford worried about cholesterol and the effects of excess sodium at their age. Stan rolled his eyes and without thinking told Ford, “Y’know, we all gotta die sometime. Might as well eat good!”

Ford dropped his mug in shock- the prospect of his brother’s death was too real for him to handle. Stan rubbed the back of his neck, realizing he’d said the wrong thing. “Sorry, I just meant- y’know… I didn’t mean it.”

Ford looked at him for what felt like the longest time before nodding. Unexpectedly, he stumbled over and hugged Stan tightly. Sometimes he couldn’t believe he was really back in his own dimension, that this is real, that they’re alive and together…

Eventually, Ford broke down and agreed with Stan on settling down somewhere, even temporarily. The water was too unstable of a place to live with global warming causing stronger and stronger storms, more often throughout the year. Even sailing North didn’t help; it just created a different set of problems, especially with Stan’s joints getting worse in the cold. Reluctantly, Ford admitted the same. They decided that they would settle in one place for six months at a time, each deciding alternate locations. Stan would get first choice, then Ford, since Ford had already done most of the decision-making aboard the Stan O’ War II. Stan decided that since winter was warm down South, he wanted to park the boat at a beach and relax with burgers, babes, and bargains. A tourist trap town near the water where he could disappear and just enjoy life- no adventures, no mysteries for just six months. Ford could go off on his own… just not for too long. Stan hated to think about it, but he really wasn’t ready to live without his brother yet. He spent so long trying to get him back; he couldn’t bear to see him move away.

But after so long, living in only a handful of square feet together, he was starting to feel a little cramped. Maybe a two-bedroom rental wouldn’t be so bad. They had plenty of money after Ford had negotiated with a company interested in the patent on one of his very minor inventions: the skin-softening lightbulb, made to only last 50 years in order to allow for a more accessible product. They would have all they ever needed for the rest of their lives. Ford made sure they put money aside for Dipper and Mabel’s future as well. Stan sent them ‘real gifts’: a lockpicking kit, a Bear Scouts manual that featured knot tying techniques and fire setting (“That’s ‘fire SAFETY’, Stanley.”), and piles of adorable stickers, colourful duct tape, and something called ‘washy tape’ that he knew Mabel would enjoy.

Stan picked a run-down, mint-green and white stucco building a half-hour inland from the beach as the Place To Be. It was in walking distance from a decent diner and a convenience store, in delivery distance from a pizza (never as good as the kind from home, naturally), and not far from the port or from a beach of gorgeous local women. Not that he ever knew how to talk to any, but he could look at least. The rent was cheap because the landlord was more of a sleazy slumlord, but Stan had the man down to the lowest dollar possible while still coaxing him to neglect to check both of the retirees’ identifications and backgrounds. One of them being officially dead might raise some questions.

Since there were no two-bedroom units, each of the Stans got a studio next to each other. They moved in quickly and left the boat empty of anything personal to take. Each apartment was still quite bare. Ford was used to owning only what he could pack onto his body. Stan was accustomed to more of the comforts of home. He wanted a cushy recliner, a television, and at least a coffee table to put his feet up on sometimes. Ford reminded him that it was only a studio and that he’d need a place to sleep. A pull-out couch would serve better than the recliner. Stan said that Ford could get the couch and he’ll sleep over when he wants. Of course, Ford assured they’d get whatever Stan wanted. They had six months to live there, after all.


	2. The Creeping Horror in the Stairwell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frustrations abound. Stan chose their apartment on the basis of a slumlord not asking for their ID (their single ID, one of them being officially dead, which might present a problem.) He did not choose it for common amenities, like a mailbox that opened properly. The sea serpent hunt isn't going well, either. What's a guy to do?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ford hallucinates as a result of PTSD.  
> Edited 3/15/19

Ford was attempting to collect mail in the hallway after he returned home one night. Disappointed, he’d been hoping for a sighting of alligator-eating sea serpents that hide in the shallow continental shelf trenches when tide goes out. No such luck. They may be a myth to attract tourists while keeping them from wanting to swim out too far from shore, he thought. The water was deceptively calm on the surface, and an inlander wouldn’t know about undertows or tides. He needed to learn how to use all of the features on his new handheld computer/phone. There was a flashlight on there, but he couldn’t remember what button it was. Annoyed, trying to line up the small key to the dented mail slot door, he paused to watch the person from upstairs navigate in near-total darkness. How did they manage to move with such surety down the stairs without light to guide them?

But the person didn’t descend to the bottom of the stairs. A mass of humanoid shapes, too lumpy for a person but too human for an animal, prompted Ford to back away a few feet and slowly take out a serrated hunting knife. The person-like thing scaled the railing and stretched out towards the ceiling of the first floor, using it’s body like a tension rod, its’ large pouch-like belly sagging in front, horrifying and surreal. It had webbed arms and long, spindly legs, skinny like a spiders’ at the ends and thicker, fattier (more muscular?), towards the torso. Ford watched, frozen with fascination and a little bit of fear, as it… unscrewed the burnt-out lightbulb and replaced it with one from its stomach pouch? Carefully, it climbed back down from its precarious position on the railing, finished descending the stairs, and advanced onto Ford- stopping short to fiddle with something in the electrical panel under the stairwell.

Ford blinked and jumped back with the sudden rush of light into his eyes, unable to see the creature for a moment.

“Uh, you okay?” it asked him.

He blinked as his eyes adjusted, the halos of sudden brightness dissipating. The creature wasn’t a creature at all- his mind had imagined it in the darkness. Instead of a monster, it was a young woman, barefoot, in thin black calf-length leggings, a long form-fitting shirt, sleeves stopping at the elbow, with a wide scarf around her shoulders. The sagging pelican’s beak-like stomach was a deep bag woven from cotton or linen in patterns that resembled veins in the darkness, but which were revealed to be vines in the light. Her gold-and-mouse brown curly hair was pulled back into a loose bun; of course the ‘creature’ had a strangely-shaped head.

“Hey- really, are you okay? I didn’t mean to scare you…” Nervous, she swayed on her heels slightly. “I forget that other people can’t see in the dark like I can. Sorry about that. It’s just that someone almost fell on these stairs the other day, and the landlord won’t fix the lights, so I did. Really, are you okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” She smiled sheepishly before looking away to dig in her bag. The sound of clattering metal snapped Ford out of his speechlessness. He had been about to attack someone for changing a lightbulb without a ladder. Imagining monsters when the logical option would be to expect a human first. Instinct says otherwise, he thinks, but this is a city. A proper city, on Earth, in his home dimension, and monsters don’t often crop up in places too inhabited. She pulled keys out of her bag and held them up, both of her hands displayed in front of her, open and- did she know that he was on the defensive?

He exhaled sharply. “I apologize for my reaction. I… it was… unexpected,” he said, unsure of how to approach the fact that he’d almost stabbed an innocent girl. She nodded at him. “It’s alright. I’m just going to check my mail. Can I come closer?” With her stance still open, her movements still slow, she… she couldn’t have…

“I can see the knife you’re holding. I’d say I won’t hurt you, but that sounds like the kinda thing a guy who would hurt you would say. You a combat vet? You and your brother? You’re twins, right? I saw him earlier. Nice guy.”

Her voice had a friendly but cautious cadence- she was clearly wary of him, the way one would be wary of a stranger’s large dog. Ford studied her carefully- she’s almost as tall as he is, although he was always a bit shorter than average for a man. Getting older only shrank him by an inch or two, which didn’t help at all. Finally, he responded, “Ah. Yes.” (What war was happening when he was in college? Vietnam? And the Cold War was never-ending…) “’Nam. I was in towards the end,” he lied, hoping she wouldn’t ask any questions.

She backed up a few steps. In a slow, firm Southern drawl, she demanded “You put that knife away, now. Ain’t gonna come near you. No fight here. You need me to get your brother?” She motions towards Stan’s door. “I told him earlier if I’m too loud overhead, he can just tell me. Or if he needs help, he can call. I know y’all are new around here. Or I can just go upstairs…”

 _‘Her footwork is remarkable. Maybe she’s a dancer- or a fighter. Flexible body, keen eyes. Female. Probably a dancer…’_ he thought. Finally, Ford remembered that he still had a white-knuckled grip on his knife. Embarrassed, he loosened up and put it away before showing his own empty hands. “Not necessary. I just have a bad reaction to hidden figures in the darkness. You’re…” he thinks of something complimentary. “You’re adept at climbing, huh? You… do repairs on the building?”

She shook her head and rolled her eyes. “’Fraid not. Actually, never had a place that was mine to learn how to fix. Guy down the hall is a licensed contractor. Don’t call maintenance- call him. You’ll have to pay, but it keeps Dave off your ass.” Still showing her every movement, she unlocked the mailbox, lifting one corner of the metal door up with the key used as leverage to get it to turn. With a loud _thunk_ , it popped open. “Need me to get yours, too? Building settled after install. They’re all warped. Watch you don’t break a key.” Ford nodded, making mental notes about his new residence. She knew a lot about the building and its quirks. It wouldn’t hurt to make a… not a friend, but maybe a person to talk to in passing. Ford was painfully aware that on this small planet, in this mundane dimension, he was too ‘weird’ to make friends. He thanked her for warning him about the key and wrestled with his own mailbox for a moment. She stopped him before he could put anything inside- “Uh-uh, babe. No outbound here. I do postage runs four times a week, or you can catch the mail guy when he’s delivering.”

Really? How frustrating. Stan picked the lowest-class place just because it’s cheap. No thought put into anything else, as usual! He turned to ask another question, but she was already halfway up the stairs again. _‘How silently she can move!’_ he thought, followed by _‘although I wasn’t paying attention…’_ He let out a long exhale when he heard the door upstairs click shut. If socializing with other people is going to be this difficult, he’d rather sleep on the boat. It was so much easier when it was just Stan, his grand-niece and nephew, and some monsters.

Monsters didn’t hate him for his extra fingers. He was even once crowned king in a finger dimension- until someone with seven fingers on a hand showed up. In places where people had no face, blue skin, or twenty eyes, no one cared about someone looking different. It occurred to him that he had shown his hands to her and she hadn’t flinched or commented. Maybe she didn’t really look? Or she was too polite to say anything. Or she was more worried about him holding a weapon when he was a complete stranger to her and they were alone together in a run-down building. That was probably it.

And now she thought Ford to be a Vietnam veteran. Unhinged. At least she wasn’t the kind to try to run up and solve his problems by hugging him. With small exceptions, like the twins, concepts of human touch were now either alien or riddled with bad memories. But she seemed kind enough. Ford wished he could do the whole conversation over. Maybe his brother would have her name. He already had her phone number. Ford had to admit, that was quick, especially for a guy so much older than she is. She was, once again, probably just being considerate and nothing more.

He sighed and let himself into Stan’s apartment. He would have fun explaining their neighbour’s perceptions of them; for Ford, it was tedious. For Stan, he knew it would be fun- a thrilling addition to his false persona, something to get veteran’s discounts with when he couldn’t get a senior discount somewhere. Assuming that he didn’t outright shoplift what he wanted, of course. Stan grinned wide, popping out from the delicious-smelling kitchen. “Pancakes?” he offered to the tired-looking twin. A smile crept across his face. As long as Stan was there, this dump was home.


	3. Stancakes + Sleeping Arrangements

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ford is a huge nerd. Stan wants to cook and relax.

‘Nina’ is what she called herself, according to Stan, after bragging that it only had taken a few days to get a girl’s number. Ford huffed in disbelief. Leave it to Stan to brag about someone who would have no interest in him, harmless as it may be. True to his brother’s expectations, the idea of either of them being an American war vet was both laughable and not too far from the truth. Stan pointed out that they had, after all, technically fought a war- and this war actually had solid justification. And the war was in Oregon, which is in America. It was a sobering idea. Ford ate his pancakes slowly, paying more attention to the rhythm of his chewing. Stan clapped a strong hand on his shoulder, prompting the smallest of smiles of the more somber twin. He didn’t tell Stan about his moment of hallucination, but he did mention that she fixed the light outside. He thought he should bring her one of his lightbulbs.

Ford launched into his account of the day, between gathering information on local folktales and ghost stories during the week and taking their small boat out to deep waters to look for this massive serpent, a beast known to be five or six metres long, pitch black or deep green, hiding in the sand in wait with teeth nearly 15 centimetres long, transparent like glass. Some said it has small fins, others say it is like a large boa constrictor. While densely wooded areas of the state do have a large serpent infestation due to pet owners illegally releasing exotics, they do not live in salt waters- no matter how abnormally warm that water is. There was little hope in following up without evidence.

As quiet as she might try to be upstairs, the muffled noises of footsteps on poorly-installed tile and remnants of music would drift through the ceiling from time to time. Stan didn’t mind. He was used to having kids around, either Soos or others. At least they never heard anything too late at night. Ford considered her previous behaviour and figured that while she claimed to be some kind of night owl, she also showed concern for being a good neighbor, keeping herself quiet when others might sleep. And she would help strangers… why would she not think of her possible effects on the people who live below her feet? It would make sense. _‘Nina would make a good resource,’_ he thought.

Stan was just happy to have caught up on some television reruns that he’d missed, cold drink in hand. It was a comfortable state. He’d get out and do some exploring the next day- and if Ford was going out looking for that snake, he’d consider fishing. Not to eat anything, since he was sick of fish, but out of familiarity. Maybe the place a few blocks away would have billiard tables. They advertised Happy Hour and karaoke nights, so they probably had pool, too. Maybe Ford would take a break and come along to people-watch, have a drink, and relax.

Ford reminded Stan that his apartment would soon have internet access and that he wanted to spend some time in the next week to learn about this new worldwide communications protocol, chattering excitedly about having more power in his computer/phone than in the entire basement prior to stealing the higher-tech illegal equipment. There was so much to learn. The screen of the ‘laptop’ (ironically not to be used on one’s lap for risk of overheating) was a bit small for Ford’s taste but the store rep assured that with a cable and some settings adjustments, he could connect the computer to Stan’s television. He just needed to convince Stan to let him borrow it for a few days if the smaller display became tedious to use.

Stan spaced out for most of this one-sided conversation, nodding along and following none of what was said. He liked his old-school AM radio, any era’s television would do if it could hook up to a VHS player (now a DVD player), and sometimes, a small stack of magazines or a disgruntled bar patron to snicker at for entertainment. Ford was certain that Stan would see the value in having internet access once they both learned how to use it. Stan gave a dramatic eye roll and shrug in response; “Sure, sure, whatever. Then let me get back to not being a nerd. I’ve learned enough stuff for a lifetime, thanks!” He didn’t think Ford would hold him to promises made under duress.

That night, they stayed up to watch a movie Ford had never seen, having been in the portal when it came out. Stan said that ‘Spaceballs’ was an old favourite. Ford couldn’t help but to mentally pick apart how the Maid would work, but still found the parody enjoyable and a brilliant sendup of ‘Star Wars’, which had been a favourite before his involvement with Bill. Stan might be right- there was so, so much to catch up on. A strange paradox of being both stuck in time from thirty years ago, and also hundreds of years advanced from the rest of the world in alien technologies. The very concept gave him a tension headache.

They slept in the same bed that night, in Ford’s apartment. It kept them both from having the worst of the nightmares. One would always be trusted to wake the other up… Years ago, neither could have imagined wanting to sleep that closely to the other, but now, they couldn’t stand to be very far apart. Tonight, it was the greatest comfort to reach out and find the solidity of the other. Ford tried to dissolve the lingering image of the pouch-bellied monster/woman as he passed out.


	4. Pomegranates + Honey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shabbat breakfast and swallowed words

The morning came all too soon. Stan had starfished in his sleep, stretched across the small pull-out bed, leg thrown across Ford’s, causing numbness and a distinctly sore knee. The dappled light coming in through the blinds betrayed how late it really was. Ford’s window faced the back of the building, enclosed by a fence and overshadowed by tall trees and dense foliage left to grow wild in that small space. Sansevieria, snakeroot, sprouted up uncontrolled along the back wall in between the air conditioner units; its dense blades jutting out everywhere in sharp relief to the vines growing wild on the fence, interspersed with some kind of long, tall, pale grasses against the wall. Someone must have planted them for their durability, but also as a deterrent- they would have to be cut to repair (or steal) the equipment.

Shuffling clean clothes on, Ford thought that it felt so _good_ to be in a clean shirt- little things not often had in the portal or on a boat. He wouldn’t miss the grime and sweat tacked to his skin, nor smell at all. He was a cluttered person who preferred to be clean. Piles of disorganized books, papers, and oddities were fine by him; dust and dirt inside his living space, not so much. That belonged outside with the world he studied. Home was where the outside world was supposed to end. Also, dust was a threat to the functioning of electronic equipment, and that equipment was quite costly and cumbersome to replace. It was less about germaphobia (who could pursue unicorns and barf fairies, but be afraid of germs?) and more about efficiency and preventative maintenance. This long-sleeved shirt was too warm in the humid Southern climate, but it afforded him sun protection. And maybe, he admitted to himself, that he just didn’t like his skin exposed to people for some reason. Black denim might be too much in the weather, though, so he opted for deep blue.

Stan was finally rolling out of bed, grumbling about the thin mattress and demanding they buy a real damn bed. Ford huffed- as if Stan wasn’t the one who chose the living quarters. At least Ford had the good sense to load the coffee maker the night before so that all he had to do was press a button in the morning. They’d have a cup and go on about the day. Ford checked the tide and weather reports while Stan took a shower. That was another nice thing about living ‘not on a boat’- hot showers on demand. Almost. When the water heater actually heated water above lukewarm. He’d have to fix that, he mentally noted. He swore he could hear Stan grumbling in the bathroom. _Serves him right. He picked the place._ _Just like Pa… a total tightwad,_ Ford thought.

Looking at his watch, the time was already nearly noon. Much later in the day than expected. Would it be worth it to go out into the water now, at peak sunlight? It would be too hot, too bright, for any real work. And it was a weekend, he recalled- that meant too many beachgoers and boaters scaring off wildlife. But he was too restless to stay indoors. Maybe there was a library nearby? He could read about the internet and modern computers… the world had come such a long way from the room-filling processing units of the 1970s. It truly astounded Ford what even his “phone” could do. Stan finally emerged, smelling much better than before. He wanted to relax and maybe grab lunch someplace.

The knock on the door was unexpected. They had paid the rent already, all six months at once, as part of the condition for not asking questions. Who, then?

Some subconscious part of Ford’s mind had braced for trouble. He and his twin exchanged glances before Stan shrugged and opened the door, his broad shoulders filling the small gap of the entrance, wide enough for him to see who’s calling. On the other side was Nina, carrying a picnic basket that looked cumbersomely large next to her petit frame. Her eyes lit up and a smile bloomed on her face when she saw him. Stan opened the door widely and invited her in, but she shook her head and declined, instead offering him the basket.

“Sorry to bother you,” she started. “I just wanted to offer you both breakfast, but I wasn’t sure what you liked. Anyways, I made too much bread again, and it makes great French toast…” she looked inside and waved to Ford, who had since started to unpack his new laptop. She looked back at Stan and quietly whispered, “Please tell him I’m sorry again… see you later?”

Stan chuckled and nodded, touched over the gift and more oblivious about what she had to apologize for. “Thanks for the grub, kid!” She blushed and waved goodbye to him before rushing back upstairs.

Stan’s stomach was growling. Whatever she had brought couldn’t be _that_ bad. He’d had a lot of bad food, really inedible food from places that should have been shut down a long time ago. She didn’t look like that kind of ‘cook’. Did she say she had _made_ bread? He plopped the basket onto the counter to investigate. Even Ford looked curious, putting down the plastics and cables, to come join him in the kitchen. Stan opened one side and found fruit (not really his thing). The other side must have… Stored in a paper bag, he pulled out a loaf of… challah bread? And underneath, a jar of some cloudy amber substance marked “Sweet Thing’s Locally-Harvested Honey: Summer Sweet”, a tiny Tupperware container of some kind of spice-infused butter, and another of what looked like homemade apple sauce, with chunks of apple for texture.

Whereas Stan was a ‘simple food’ kind of guy, Ford was more intrigued. “She brought challah and apples?” He turned over the jar of honey in his hands, inspecting the offerings. He hadn’t had challah since he was a much younger man. His brows furrowed as he inhaled the sweet cinnamon scent of the apple sauce, tempted to dip a finger in to taste. Suddenly he felt a pang of sadness, but it was gone as soon as it came.

“Ain’t gonna cook itself. You want me to make this into French toast or not? Or are you just gonna eat it as-is?” Stan offered. Aside from a few drinks and snacks, the food and most of the dishes were kept in Stan’s apartment.

“Please,” he replied. He knew that his own cooking skills were significantly lacking without a bonfire involved. Stan had much more practice, and Ford felt foolish to show his incompetence. It was one thing to follow a recipe for something new- he could do that, it had instructions, and anyone could make a mistake. But to not know how to make basic meals at nearly seventy years old? Absolutely shameful. Stan knew, or guessed as much, so he always offered to cook for the both of them. At least Ford had gotten into a habit of showing some appreciation for his efforts. He had already packed the basket back up and headed for the door as Ford put on his boots. Even to just leave the apartment for the one next to it, he had a habit of never leaving without sturdy footwear. Old habits die hard, right? Stan understood. Or he didn’t, but he went along with it since it didn’t hurt anyone and Ford did a lot of the cleaning anyways.

The kitchen was small, but the mood was joyous. It had been decades since Stan had challah bread, and after tearing off a hunk and chewing it, he decided that while it wasn’t quite his mother’s recipe, it wasn’t half-bad. He wondered if her bringing challah and pre-made options on a Saturday was a coincidence; did she know they were Jewish? Was she Jewish? Was she observant? He’d have to ask later. Right then, his stomach told him that was really mattered was her idea of French toast, smothered in maple syrup. Ford agreed and asked for the apples to be warmed as well. Stan pulled a small pot out of the cabinet and set them on a low heat, adding just a little water so they didn’t dry out while cooking again. He kept the small-talk to a minimum, but asked Ford what he thought of Nina. “Think she’s Jewish, too? Didn’t seem like it… but who knows, right?”

Ford made a non-committal noise that sounded like an agreement. He didn’t think anything of someone he didn’t know.

For a moment, Ford seemed like a kid again, pulling off pieces of the remaining half of the small loaf and dipping them in the honey. Then he remembered that Stan had griped about fruit- what fruit? Excited as if it were a holiday, he pulled out bright orange tangerines, a few red, ripe apples, and a brilliantly pink-red pomegranate, barely in season. He held the pomegranate for a few minutes, deliberating whether or not to open it. He hadn’t cared for their tartness as a child, but seeing one in this context, with the smell of eggy bread and apples heating up, he wished for a potato knish. He could almost hear his mother reminding him to eat well so that he could study harder… his throat tightened at that; he could feel the tears welling, threatening to fall and betray him. He asked Stan for a bowl and a knife. Peeling a pomegranate would distract him and give his hands something to work on.

Instead of a knife, Stan turned to hand him the first plate of fluffy, golden-brown toast, steaming apple sauce spooned onto the side of the plate. “Fork’s in the dishwasher,” he said before turning his next slice in the pan. He, too, was consumed with momentary thoughts of their childhood. But Ford didn’t get ‘emotional’ like he did, so he didn’t bother to talk about it.

“What’s she apologizing for?” Stan asked.

“Hmm?” Ford responded.

Stan repeated the question. “She said to tell you she’s sorry again. What happened?”

Ford thought fast. “Oh, she… accidentally stepped on my foot last night while getting the mail,” he lied. He didn’t need Stan to talk to him about his mind. What did people call it now- ‘adjustment reaction’? Shell-shock or “battle fatigue” was really more appropriate, but a component of one of his doctorates involved learning psychology, and the DSM-III was the diagnostic manual at the time. He disagreed with the whole thing, but decided it wasn’t his affair and preferred to pursue mechanics. Maybe the manual had been updated? Another thing to put on his mental reading list.

They ate together without much conversation, the silence punctuated by scraping cutlery against plates and appreciative noises from both men. It was hard to know which one enjoyed breakfast more, but easy to tell who was responsible for cleaning the dishes. Stan would return the basket later. Maybe he could corral Ford into doing it for him so that he didn’t have to climb the stairs.


	5. Invitations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ford successfully manages to ask her to dinner. Sort of.

He didn’t know what to say this time. _Sorry for acting like a jerk?_ No. _Thank you for breakfast? Are you Jewish?_ Maybe. At least the first part of that sentence would work. This “talking to girls” thing wasn’t so difficult in the Multiverse. Always seen as a stranger, (almost) always given leeway for ‘incompatible’ or ‘strange’ customs. But ‘old’ world, old social conditions. Old rejections and fears.

 Ford waited at the door, nervously holding the basket behind him. He wished he had worn the weight of his long coat; it was one more layer between him and the world, and he thought he looked more intimidating in it. Or handsome. Maybe both. The scant moments between knocking and the sound of a chain sliding on the other side of the door seemed to stretch into minutes.

            He felt his face grow warm as she opened the door. “Oh, hey! Wanna come in?” she asked pleasantly, like he was a well-known friend. She left the door open for him to follow her, so he obliged. She picked up a few things scattered around her coffee table, clearing them in a stack to one side.

Ford entered as far as the couch and set the basket on the bar countertop. “Ah… your name is Nina, Stan says? The bread was quite good…” he began, hoping for the right conversation-starter. She gestured towards her couch, a grey microfiber style with a somewhat-shiny, fuzzy-looking crocheted blanket thrown over it in shades of various blues and silver.

“Please, make yourself at home. Would you like something to drink?” she asked.

He gazed at her, watching her hips sway as she stood on her toes to reach a glass in the cabinet before accepting her hospitality. “Ah- no, thank you.”

She glanced over her shoulder at him and smiled. “It’s no trouble really. If you change your mind…” She brought two glasses of cold water anyways and set one on the table near him. He briefly noted the cool bluish-grey and brown slate set atop iron. She loved water tones, didn’t she?

She looked at him quizzically as she took the opposite end of the furniture. “Er, I never did get your name. Stan might have told me, but… I must have forgotten…” She rubbed her neck in embarrassment, a habit Ford noted as he did the same on occasion. He nodded and introduced himself.

“Ford?” she repeated. “Hnn, hello, Ford. Nina. I don’t know if you’re the hand-shaking type, but if not, no big deal.” She reached out a hand for his. Impulsively, he decided to shake her hand. If she rejected him for his abnormality, he would know quickly; better now than later, when he might think she is a friend. When she gently pulled away, she peered at his hands. He was surprised when her face lit up- was she going to laugh at him?

“So, do the extra fingers help you build stuff? Stan says you were a scientist turned engineer.” She seemed genuinely curious, until her smile fell. She pulled away from him, avoiding his eyes. “Sorry. It was probably rude to ask that. I just like building things, too, sometimes, and… uh. Sorry.”

Ford shook his head and took her hand again, the left, this time. His small smile giving her a little courage to face him again. “Really, it… most people aren’t… so positive about it,” he assured her, not sure if he wanted to go into how genuinely sickened, disgusted most were towards the defect.

She cocked her head to one side, frowning, looking from his hand to his face. “… Positive?” she asked. Was she really so unaware? Vapid. How disappointing. Ford leaned back against the corner of the couch, searching for words to explain.

“Yes… I am not accustomed to-” he paused.

She bluntly interrupted, “Oh, you mean people reject you for it!” She smiled, nodding thoughtfully, and then shrugged. “Yeah, I could see that. People suck, Ford. Don’t waste time on someone who is that stupid. As a stupid person, I am telling you, it’s a waste of your life. Fuck ‘em!”

Ford gawked at her use of profanity and her odd, lighthearted reaction to a subject normally so serious. Here was this golden-brown haired, wide-eyed tiny mouse of a young woman, armed only with a foul mouth and probably more genuine self-confidence than he’d ever possessed outside of academia. Despite her self-deprecation, he noted.

She continued, “I’m just saying, Ford. Anyone who is that hung up on a finger can’t handle all of you. Surround yourself with people who can.” She sat cross-legged on the couch, chin in one hand, resting on her knee, one eyebrow raised to the older man. His disquiet must have been obvious because she abruptly changed the subject. “How was the bread? I hope there wasn’t anything you couldn’t eat or don’t like- but then, I mean, it’s okay if there was. It isn’t like I know either of you…”

 _Oh, thank Moses,_ a topic he could handle. With relief in his voice, he responded “Yes, yes, well. Actually, it was quite good! I may have kept the apples to myself. Stan and I were wondering- are you Jewish?” He tried not to let his eyes linger too long as her mouth parted.

“Hnn? No, sorry. Uh, you’re wondering based on the bread, right?”

Ford nodded assent.

Nina looked nostalgic for a moment, gazing off into the distance before slowly responding. “I got the recipe from an old boss. She’s Israeli. I’d introduce you, but she moved years ago.”

That was a little surprising to Ford. Everything about that morning reminded him of home. With a hundred questions crossing his mind, he blurted out “But it’s Saturday! The honey and the pomegranate! And pareve rules were followed…”

She returned with a blank look. “Uh, sorry, hon. Honey and challah just make _sense_. And it’s how I was taught to make it… and the fruit, well, that’s just what’s in season right now. Pomegranates are my favourite! I just can’t afford them very often, and I thought, you two might like one… they’re quite expensive, and if you two are living _here_ together, you can’t be making much yourselves.” She shifted uncomfortably. “I, uh, don’t know what ‘pareve’ means…”

Ford stared at her, incredulous. An absolute goy brought him the best Shabbat breakfast he’d had in years. He couldn’t believe it!

“I see. Well… Saturday is typically a kind of day off for a lot of us, like Sunday for Christians. Stan and I are fairly secular, but because of the timing, we thought- but it doesn’t matter.” He stood and adjusted his shirt. She took it as a cue to also stand, as he was about to leave. Ford smiled, the first she’d seen of his genuine happiness. He was beautiful for a man his age, at least, he was when he was happy about something, she thought.

Ford shoved his hands in his pockets and said to the floor, “Let us cook for you sometime. Or take you out for dinner. Since you made us food.”

She rounded the coffee table to join him. Taking a chance, she lifted his stubble-covered chin with a single finger. For just a moment, she met his eyes. “Sounds good, Ford. You boys let me know when, and I’ll join.” Ford’s cheeks turned pink to match his nose, which she avoided acknowledging. She let him out, holding the door for him.

Before he reached the first stair, she asked him to tell her if she ever offended either of them. Ford could only wave her off, still embarrassed- or flustered from the first friendly (adult human female) touch he’d received in a long time. He glanced around the hallway once downstairs to ensure it was completely empty before adjusting himself. Surely, it was just a normal hormonal reaction. He wasn’t really attracted to her at all. He didn’t even know her, and at twice her age, she wasn’t likely attracted to him either. He put the notion out of his head and let himself into Stan’s apartment. He had to tell his brother that he had volunteered them both (really, just Stan) to return her favour in food.


	6. "Nice, but she ain't right..."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stan and Ford know something is a little... off... about the woman upstairs, but at least she's nice enough. Ford has cabin fever; time to grab Stan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chap 1-16 have been edited (somewhat) for formatting as of 3/15/19. <3

‘ _Maybe “vapid” was an unfair way to describe her’_ , Ford thought. But something was certainly off about her personality and mannerisms; he just couldn’t quite pin it down. Her incessant knee-bouncing or toe-tapping, inappropriate expressions, never being able to meet his eye for more than a split second followed by unblinking stares; these traits left him deeply discomforted… The brief conversations they’d had in the hallway in the few weeks since the Surprise Breakfast had convinced him that she wasn’t by any means ‘normal’. But she also wasn’t _stupid_ as he’d thought- in fact, quite the opposite.

On one occasion, he and Stan had returned from a fishing trip to find her sitting on top of her car, notepad in her lap. An unusual sight for sure. Stan cracked a joke about it, which she didn’t seem to understand.

Taking him seriously, she explained that previous tenants had driven over the original landscaping, which the landlord was too cheap to replace. As a result, the building would sometimes flood- or so she thought. Planting new things with deep roots would mitigate the water overflow, and that shallow-rooted things would keep surface soil in place. But she had to plan carefully for the way the light moved around the building throughout the day and the during the seasons, calculating how many hours of direct light each section would receive to create a unified, ‘orchestrated’ landscape, preferably of edible plants that anyone could harvest. Ford listened as she rambled eagerly to Stan, who nodded along as he would to a child. Then she stopped abruptly, realizing a bit late that Stan probably wasn’t really following, and apologized to them both for being uninteresting. Ford tried to reassure her that her plans were good but probably expensive, but she had fallen silent, only responding with nods. She waved goodbye to them, slid off the car, and wandered off to the fenced-in side yard. The brothers in unison watched her leave, totally confused as to what just happened.

Stan said it first, once they got inside: “I don’t think she’s right in the head, y’know, Sixer? Nice, but she ain’t right.” Ford agreed. He also agreed that she might be onto something, noting the sections of silt dirt where nothing grew anymore. In a semi-tropical climate, water would only sit on top of the sand. Some greenery might improve drainage. Nina couldn’t be that uneducated if she could calculate agricultural needs and have the dedication and insight to do so. It was an idea to mull over- the paradox of behaviour versus intelligence.

Ford became frustrated that he’d spent weeks in one place with not much to do. Or rather, there was plenty to do, but indoors only. Even in the Autumn, the heat and humidity was becoming unbearable to him- sure, his joints ached a little less, but the exhaustion of beach trawling and outdoor exercise was too much in 32c weather. The hunt for the sea serpent was also confirmed a bust. At least he had this new computer to learn about. A whole new world was opened to him with the discovery of how to use the internet. Unlimited research at his fingertips, professional or otherwise. A whole lot of ‘otherwise’, and it frustrated him to no end to return only results for either absolute spurious conjecture or a steep paywall for anything better. He had the funding to pay, but the principle of the thing was access to free information. What is it about academia that spawned such demand for payment? Were scientists not given grants like they used to be? Did they need the extra funding? Were the colleges not providing anymore? _Not that some of them ever had_ , he griped, remembering his days at Backupsmore.

So much had changed since his own heyday on Earth. The world was now even more baffling in the most unpleasant ways. People seemed busier than ever, and more self-absorbed, somehow, drowned by technological advances. A cell phone meant that he was expected to give his attention on-demand for a litany of marketing calls and ‘instant messages’ from relatives. And for some reason, his new computer was slowing to a crawl when loading data; he had grounded and opened the case, but none of the parts seemed damaged. He followed the instructions for the built-in diagnostics, which revealed nothing amiss. Maybe a program was eating up processing power, but he hadn’t installed anything new recently. McGucket would have known what to do. Ford longed for the days of 5” floppy disks and data tapes- even if it did mean a forty-pound power supply taking up space.

And the one person in this building who had bothered to acknowledge them at all in more than a passing way was apparently crazy. Fantastic.

Life at a standstill was becoming irritating, to say the least. With a heaving sigh, he shut the lid of the computer and left it on the countertop. Nina owned one. Maybe she could give him a clue as to why his was malfunctioning. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to bring it up to her, but he also didn’t know many people yet, and the other neighbours seemed to pretty much avoid each other. Or maybe they just avoided him. He wasn’t sure, but it didn’t matter either way. There were not many people to ask for help. If Nina couldn’t discover what was wrong, he would have to call for ‘customer support’, and really did not feel like spending a few hours on the phone with someone who could hardly understand him. It wasn’t that Nina was a bad person, Ford decided. He liked her well enough for someone he didn’t know at all. She was just odd and would sometimes make conversational leaps that were difficult to follow. It was like talking to someone very mentally unstable, which Ford was certain she was.

And yet, she also complimented him. He had always been a sucker for praise, but this was a _girl_ who complimented him. Not just for his brain, but for his tangible skills. And sometimes, the most insightful, encouraging words would pour out like the local rain: just as it’s noticed, it’s gone again. Whenever he mourned the loss of a past opportunity, he thought of her comment about his finger. If someone couldn’t handle that, they couldn’t handle the rest of him. Life was too short to be spent waiting.

And too short to be spent waiting for a computer to fix itself. He groaned at the thought of something having to be replaced already (everything is so flimsy these days!) but dutifully shut the computer down and wound the cords tightly. Nina was probably home. She was always home, it seemed. Didn’t she work? She must. How would she be paying for things if she didn’t?

He locked the door- foolish, since anyone could just kick it in. As he was about to round the stairs, Ford heard the sound of Nina’s door open, the murmuring sounds of gentle words floating down the hallway. He paused for a moment, reconsidering whether to interrupt her and her guest. The visitor descended the stairs quickly, nodded a greeting as he passed, and headed for the parking lot. Ford’s gaze lingered after him, analyzing who he could be: around her age, a little older perhaps. Slim but muscular, tall, sandy-haired. A pretty face for a man- not handsome, he thought. Effeminate, _pretty_. If he was leaving, Ford thought at least he could ask when it is a better time for her to visit. The promise of a future shared meal floated back to him, unfulfilled. It could be his excuse for her to visit later, so she could look over his laptop on their own time.

Somehow perturbed by her visitor, Ford could not define the reason behind the emotion. Before he could mull it over, or make up his mind to turn back around, he found himself face-to-face with the fae creature herself.

She greeted him brightly, but with an air of fatigue. Dressed in loose layers of deep cobalt linen and a storm-grey formless shirt, glittering sandals on her feet, she looked like the picture of twilight through freezing rain, her hair in a halo of loose curls like the golden glow of the moon, expression nearly as mysterious. She carried several large fabric bags, each of which looked to be constructed from hand-sewn patchwork. Ford’s mouth went dry, although he was thankful that his palms no longer sweat when he was nervous. The years in the Portal did him that much good. Then he realized that he’d been asked a question- but what was the question?

“Ford? Hon? Were you on your way up to see me?” she repeated. She sounded absolutely exhausted this time.

Ford shook his head ‘no’ but then said, “Well, yes, but-“

“Well, then, are you alright? Did you need something? I’m heading out for a bit, and I have to work tonight, but tomorrow I’m free during the day… that’s a Saturday…” The toe-tapping started again, slight, like she was trying to hold back.

For a moment, he was offended; or rather, he was affronted that he felt like he was wasting her time. But then, he reminded himself, the toe-tapping was a tic. She did it all the time, no matter what was going on. “Nothing important! I had some questions about this computer and I thought you might know the answers. But it can wait until tomorrow, if you are free then. Perhaps we can get lunch?”

A wan smile crept across her face as she nodded eagerly. For the first time in a long while, she looked him in the eye- only for a moment, and then off again, somewhere past his shoulder. Watching her shift the weight of her things reminded him of a bird rustling its wings. He held his breath a moment, waiting for… something he couldn’t identify. She nodded towards him and brushed past, retrieving car keys. Ford waited longer for her to load the backseat, watching every moment, drinking in her sight like a man dying of thirst. She had sort-of agreed to lunch (or something) with him. Of course, Stan would be invited for posterity. He wouldn’t go alone, and he wouldn’t leave Stan out of an outing he might actually enjoy. His thoughts snapped back to current reality with the sound of the engine starting, and her calling to him to let her know a time for tomorrow…

With that, he returned to the air-conditioned solitude of his studio, set the computer aside for the next day, and called Stan. He discovered that today, he really didn’t want to be alone.


	7. Hustlers + Freaks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stan picked the perfect place to hustle stupid people for lots of money and (hopefully) impress women. Ford is hapless.

Stan was having a great time. Pool cue in hand, shot of whiskey on the table, he was in his element. And against these young, cocky guys, he was cool and collected, his eyes on the prize. Hustling was second nature after his time learning how it worked. And he was pretty sure he was going to win this round. If he could get the damn overhead light to stop glaring on his glasses, he’d be set, but at least the lights were dim in this place.

Ford was at a larger table in a less-crowded corner, the kind of corner where college kids would normally be found making out over way too many drinks and way too many poor decisions. He leaned over, his elbows on the table, large hands cupped tightly around a large mug of coffee. While Ford could handle alcohol, even had a taste for it, he had responsibly appointed himself to be a designated driver. He could down some vodka before bed to help him sleep. Not that it worked, he knew; alcohol consumption caused REM interruptions, leading to less restful sleep, but it made his mind shut up when exercise and adventuring wouldn’t. Considering that his adventures had been slim to none lately, he would have plenty of nothing to mull over- boredom as aimless mental chatter.

Stan picked the place, a small karaoke bar not far from their apartments, where the food was decent for the price and the people-watching opportunities were plentiful. Somehow it left Ford disaffected; it brought back odd times in alien bars and hovels where things could go from having really good drinking buddies to really intense fighting in only minutes. Apparently, some English words sound the same as insults in foreign languages. It had led to some very unfortunate misunderstandings. At least he knew that in an Earth bar, a person had to try to start a fight. Or just sit there, and someone would start one for him. He’d find out. This darkened section was chosen to reduce the chances of drunken, aggressive men looking to pick at his peculiar looks. Can’t fight over what isn’t seen…

In the meantime, Stan was off on his own, bringing in some cash just because he could- and also, it might impress Nina. She had already asked to be shown how to play on some other night, but commented that she might not be good because she ‘hated triangles’. For once, Stan burst out laughing and ruffled a thick, calloused hand through her hair. “You hate triangles! Yeah, me too, sweetheart. Me, too. Yeah, I’ll teach ya. Soon. When it’s slow in here, we’ll grab a table.” Ford watched from a distance as she hugged Stan and kissed his cheek gently. Stan looked at her like an older child, not as a grown woman. Granted, her youthful face and childlike approach to the world might have led him to that, but she never seemed to hold it against him. Instead, she took to a role like a joyous but distant grandchild of sorts. But only with Stan- never with Ford. Ford, she treated as an equal, held at an arms’ length.

She meandered back to sit across from Ford. He swirled his coffee, gazing into the thin white lines of added half & half to avoid looking down at her chest. He would have jumped at the chance to ask her out in his youth. If he hadn’t been so obsessed with being The Best in order to be good enough to ask a girl on a date, he might not have fallen to Bill’s flattery. If he’d actually gone to a city and maybe talked to more people, he might have increased his chances of finding someone who liked him and appreciated his sense of pride and hard work. Maybe, just maybe, in a world of lesser men, he was an idiot to think that he had to try so hard. Or it was a reflection of his sense of worthlessness- other people had inherent value, so they didn’t have to do anything. Ford did not have value; therefore, he had to compensate with what he could provide. That was… a harsher truth, and therefore, more likely. He’d never been good at anything for anyone else but passing tests and writing reports. Anyone outside of that ‘school role’ just thought of him as a nerdy brain with nothing to offer. So studies it was. At least people in college wanted to talk to him, even if it was only about experiment results or doctorate thesis deadlines. He _was_ someone in academia. And his dad actually liked him, when he thought his son would bring in their retirement money…

In the dim light, he finally met her eyes. He realized that he had never discerned their colour. Black? Brown? Something dark- they always looked black, but then, he’d mostly seen her in dim indoor light, at sunset, at dusk. Rarely during the day. The sound of her glass being set on the table was almost unheard in the din of poorly-sung pop songs by a group of drunken women taking turns at the mic, but the clink of the ice let him know it was empty. She looked very relaxed, her gaze across the long room towards the stage of impromptu performers. Ford reached for her hand to get her attention, which was draped across the edge of the little round table. He caught his breath when she pulled away from him, only to exhale when she turned her palm to thread her fingers through his.

“Ford… what do you think of me?” she suddenly asked, still watching the stage. He wasn’t sure how to answer what seemed like a loaded question. There was no right answer here. But then, her questions were usually direct and non-judgmental, or at least, she didn’t tend to ascribe ideas such as ‘good’ or ‘bad’ during discussions outside of functionality; like fitting puzzle pieces, he had learned that words meant very different things to her. This made it difficult to predict how to talk to her for very different reasons, but at least he could expect that she wouldn’t dump his coffee on him. He massaged her fingers with the hand that held them while he thought about his answer.

“You’re strange,” he said. “I confess, I did not think well of you before. I have since changed my mind.”

She pursed her lips and nodded. Bluntly, she glanced over her shoulder at him and remarked, “I was told by one of the neighbours that you were watching me the other day. Are you attracted to me?”

Ford sputtered at this, feigning his revulsion at the behaviour. _Of course_ he hadn’t been looking at her inappropriately, he only-

“You know, if you wanted to kiss me, all you had to do was say so…” she simply stated, meeting his eyes in a rare moment. He blushed furiously and was grateful for the lights shining red, blue, green, and white in this area of the bar. He hoped it would hide his embarrassment. Was she really saying that he could kiss her? Did this mean she was attracted to him? It couldn’t- could it? But there was no way he could and feel right about it…

“Aren’t you put off by our… generational differences?” This was _wrong_.

“You mean generational differences, or our age gap?” she inquired, ever so even-toned, patient. It made Ford still with discomfort, like a child frozen in place, awaiting the school principle. 

“Our- everything. All of this-“ he said, waving an arm around. “We don’t know each other well and I’m easily twice your age. I’m nearly seventy. Why would you want to even think about… that?”

She nodded before turning to watch the crowd near the stage again. Finally, she said, “Ford. You don’t seem senile, or harmful. You are in control of your actions. And if it’s true that you think I’m attractive, what is there to lose? There’s definitely ‘too young’ for me. Maybe there is for you, too. But not too old, if I like the person well enough. It’s just _different,_ someone closer to my own age versus someone older. The benefits and challenges are different.” She glanced over to check his reaction.

What the hell was she saying? That… she dates older men? He didn’t know how to react. Too many details were missing. “How- … what is the age of your oldest… partner?” Did she have some kind of ‘daddy issues’? Is that what this is? He’d heard about women who wanted a sexual relationship with someone ‘father-like’. How disturbing.

“His early 50s, I think. Or so he said.” She swirled the last bit of liquid in her glass before knocking it back. “I cut it off with him quickly after he got too controlling. The red flags started very early, and I don’t wait around for people like that to really lash out. So much for a casual affair!” she laughed, shaking her head. Ford’s jaw dropped. He thought he was adventurous, but this was something completely different for him. She must have noticed his revulsion. “Ford, look. Life is short. You might as well find out now that I am not monogamous, I am not hetero, and I really don’t like purity politics where a person is only Good And Moral if they only have one partner of the ‘right kind’ for their whole lives. No one gets to decide what body they’re born with, and meetings between people are due to chance- chances that increase or decrease based on a complex set of circumstances. You had no chance to meet the person I am now, thirty years ago, did you? But are you attracted to me now? Now that you-“ she paused, distressed. “Look, okay, it’s fine. I get it. I’m a freak. Like you said: generational differences.” She took her glass, dripping with condensation and containing nothing left but ice and a small amount of water, and headed for the bar.

Ford was completely taken aback. His assumptions of her being some lonely creature locking herself in the dim tower of an apartment, rarely seen except in the evenings or for a few minutes at a time in daylight, were destroyed. She wasn’t an ‘Unattainabelle’. Nina was a real person, with a real life and real relationships, more experienced than she let on. Was that guy from before her boyfriend? A… patron? Just a friend? In any event, he didn’t feel quite so guilty over his desire. The idea of what he wanted hadn’t developed much since he hadn’t considered that anything could really come of it, but she did smell good, and he did like being touched. Physical contact made this world feel ‘real’. And she indicated that she was accepting of casual encounters- maybe she would agree to some sort of arrangement with him as well. After all, he wasn’t to live in this place for much longer…

But it was probably too late. He had already said, done, exactly the wrong things. As usual.

 _A freak._ That’s what she called herself. Surely not the first time she’s been called that, either. Hearing her spit those words out, it stung him the same as it had stung in his childhood. He’d always had Stan to stick up for him. Stan, who had such strength, physically and emotionally. Stan who was always the better one, tougher than he was, more of a man than he could be- closer to the guy his father wanted him to be. Ford always felt like he was just getting by, just making it to the end of this day, this week, this month. Stan knew how to really _live_. He envied that, just a little. But he was also learning- Stan taught him so much about how to let go of things, how to assign blame and stop piling all of his guilt only on himself. But then he just felt guilty for Stan having to deal with him to do things he should have learned forever ago.

Nina wasn’t a freak; not next to Ford. Aside from a few dates, mostly with people who weren’t even human, he didn’t know where to begin having a relationship of any kind. He usually got dumped ( _‘often for not wanting sex, and what kind of guy does that?’_ he berated himself), or had to switch dimensions… Maybe, if he could apologize, Stan would be able to tell him how to impress her. He didn’t have much to give outside of money, and people change when they think someone is their personal bank account. She thought they owned nothing, based on the low rent and few furnishings. And yet… she technically offered…


	8. Am I wrong?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stan and Ford at odds over a girl. Stan is not liking this at all.

Stan was just about to strike the last ball. He was losing his edge, but he thought it was for the best. Win too often and people get angry. The gamble wasn’t just winning as much money as possible; there was an art to lose-win ratios so that other players didn’t meet him out in the parking lot and break his windshield with his face. He leaned over the table, mentally calculating a complex angle between three balls, trying to hit them both in with the white. He glanced up at his opponent to see- just past the man’s shoulder- his brother lip-locked with their neighbour. He couldn’t believe it! Stan watched in shock, the kind of fascination that can’t be turned away from, as his brother’s hands fluttered at his sides, demonstrating his utter ineptitude. Stan leaned back, taking in every motion of hers with the man who shared his face. How she pulled his arms tightly around her waist, her hands dropping to the small of his back. It couldn’t be- Sixer had scored a _girlfriend?_

On one hand, Stan was impressed. He’d never thought the man could get a girl to come anywhere near him, except from maybe the other side of a checkout lane. On the other, he was disgusted. Was he taking advantage of this obviously mentally-challenged young, impressionable woman? Absolutely disgusting! What the hell was he thinking? Was he _that_ desperate?!

“You gonna play your shot, old man?” laughed the muscular guy Stan played against. Stan looked up at him, then again at his brother, then at his opponent. He handed over his cue and shook his head before tossing a few bills on the table and walking away.

 

* * *

 

So. You and Nina, huh?” Stan asked, his tone terse. The whole idea was messed up. What guy doesn’t want a young, hot girlfriend? But damn, she’s way too young for him. It _bothered_ Stan.

They laid in bed together, close enough but right then, he felt like they couldn’t be further apart. He didn’t blame Ford, exactly. He wasn’t the charmer that Stan was, and never seemed to know what to do in a relationship past ask someone out and go through the checklist motions of ‘go on dinner date, movie, maybe kiss’ before falling apart- if he ever got that far. He couldn’t remember Ford ever getting that far. But… with that one? He couldn’t pick someone their own age?

Ford turned on his side, pretending not to hear. He was already insecure enough. He had enjoyed the kiss, despite their rocky start. He had apologized profusely, admitted to how bad he was at relationships. That he’d seen the Multiverse and thought there were stranger things out there than a human who liked more than one gender. Talked about her job and why it isolated her from society- and why she didn’t want Stan to know. She liked the freedom and payoff of working phone sex lines, and the rare but steady clients in-person, carefully chosen for personality and willingness to provide STD test results. Very rare indeed.

While Ford didn’t exactly enjoy the thought of a lovely, pretty woman like her doing ‘that kind of thing’, her odd behaviours admittedly would make it difficult to maintain employment elsewhere. Nina agreed. The longest job she’d ever had lasted only a few months before she got fired. Sex work was easier in some ways, she said. “Figure out the fantasy. Let them live it. Then they hang up and you get paid. Easy.” It was clear: they were both outsiders for things well beyond their control. It was a disturbing idea that she hadn’t even been born yet when he was a grown man, but she was also well into adulthood and had plenty of experience with relationships. More than he ever had. She wasn’t exactly being taken advantage of. This wasn’t an imbalance of power. She started it- right? It had felt _good_ to be wanted this way.

Couldn’t he just have this?

“Hey, I’m not saying don’t make out with her,” Stan continued. “I’m saying she’s… not at the same place in life that you are, y’know? She’s gonna have needs and demands and stuff. And you’re not thirty anymore. I just don’t want you getting your heart broken because of some crazy chick.” Ford knew. The idea of his shortcomings plagued him. “I got married once. Did you know that, Sixer? It was awful. For some folks maybe it’s okay. Shermie did good, right? But that’s not what usually happens.” Ford pulled the blanket tighter around his shoulders. He shook, but not from the cold. He was having the worst time keeping control of himself; it seemed like the less he was on the run for his life, the less he had other immediate things to fight, the more unwound he became. Everything he’d held back starting to spill out. The pain and disappointment surfaced in Stan’s rusty voice; “I ain’t saying not to go have fun with her. I’m saying watch you don’t go to pieces when it’s over. She’s young. She might… y’know, get bored. It ain’t you. That’s how it is when you’re young.” Stan heard the faint sniff sound his brother made and knew it wasn’t allergies. He sat up, propping up his pillows behind his back, and pulled Ford against him tightly. He would stay awake until Ford fell asleep.

G-d help that woman if she broke poor Sixer’s heart.


	9. The Sight of Eden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Nina, we need to talk about my brother.” 
> 
> Stan would never let some young thing take advantage of family. Especially not when Ford is involved.

Stan trudged through the parking lot and pulled open the side-yard fence. It wasn’t heavy so much as it had warped with age and poor wood choices paired with landscape shifts. He wished he hadn’t worn sandals, but what else do you wear in a beach town? Sweet perfume filled the air, the scent of flowers and herbs on the wind. It was a cool Autumn day with a steady breeze- the perfect time for Ford to get out of the house and spend the weekend camping, alone, for a few days. It was also the perfect opportunity for Stan to get to know Nina a little better, without Ford interfering.

The night that Ford kissed her hadn’t left him. Ford’s vulnerability over her was troubling, and if this woman had any thoughts of playing games or casting him off, he wanted to know about it before things got too serious. For a moment, he wondered if this is how fathers of teenage girls felt when they went off to prom. He sighed; this really wasn’t his thing. He didn’t know how to say any of this, and didn’t want to play the gruff overbearing father figure. He didn’t want Sixer to come off like some deeply troubled man-child either. He also couldn’t shake her down like a lower-level dealer. He wasn’t Rico. He would never become Rico. How the hell was this supposed to work, anyways?

Nina stabbed her spade down into a bag of potting soil before pulling her gloves off and turning to Stan. She heard him come in, where aside from repairmen, others wouldn’t. It was common knowledge that most of the neighbours, all twenty or so of them, had no interest in landscaping or what happened outside, so long as cops and drugs weren’t involved. Even the parking spaces had unspoken acknowledgement of who parked where, like desks in High School. People just kept to themselves, despite how often she’d offered the fresh food she’d grown. Sometimes someone would take the long strings of fresh spring onions, or branches of rosemary, or a cord of peppermint; mostly she’d harvest, chop, and dry them herself, or freeze them in oil. She once traded a dozen sprigs of various plants to the gas station clerk in exchange for a soda on a hot day. Sometimes, she offered flowers if she knew the clerk had an important day coming and wouldn’t have time off to buy something professional. The few bouquets they offered were always slightly wilted and artificially-coloured, usually a mix of carnations and roses. She offered wild white roses and jasmine, flowering stalks of opal basil, hibiscus in sunset yellows with a red spot near the stamen. It wasn’t much, but it let her grow as much as she liked, and it made others happy. The world was cruel and aloof; her favours were small, but could take off the edge.

Maybe Stan liked flowers, too?

She dusted off her hands on her loose jeans, which were also dirty. Stan looked terse over something. He scratched at his arm and stared at his feet before squaring up to her like he was in a boxing ring, without the need for his fists. “Nina, we need to talk about my brother,” he sternly told her.

 _What had I done wrong?_ she thought. She stood where she was, not approaching or retreating from the elderly man.

He breathed deep and stayed short with her: “I need you to tell me what the hell you’re doing with him. What’s the big idea? Do you think he’s made of money or something?” He crossed his arms, waiting for an answer that would likely be evasive bullshit.

She stared and didn’t say anything. Stan lingered uncomfortably, noting how long she could go without blinking. If she hadn’t been a girl, he’d have thought about hitting her first and sorting out differences later. But he hadn’t been that guy in years- he tried to bury that guy, his former self.

“It’d be stupid to think he’s ‘made of money’, wouldn’t it,” she stated flatly. “Living in a place like this? The two of you together own less than I do. He doesn’t have anything to give me, does he.” She pulled up a dead plant, so dry that it snapped in her hands at first. Stan deflated. What else do younger women look for in old guys like them? Attractive, a big cock, financial security, a house (or car) to take… if his brother was built like he was, he wasn’t anything particularly special, so no dice there. She had a car, so no need for theirs. He had never seen her apartment, but Ford had. He said it was nice, even if the furniture was this new particle board stuff and not real wood, for the most part. Did she not know about Ford’s inventions? And the millions it had brought them? Then why would she-?

She lumbered through a deep dip in the yard on the way back from the compost heap, returning empty-handed. “Stanley,” she fumed, her Southern drawl coming out. “I’m trying not to be angry. I know you’re looking out for him-“ she stamped up to the older man, stopping only in striking distance with her filthy hands on her hips. “But if you wanna talk to me, just talk to me. Ask me things-" She pointed in the direction of their apartments. "-Or he can ask me things, if he’s got somethin’ to worry about. But if you think I kissed that man because I’m grabbing for his wallet, you’re dead wrong. I pay for myself, thank you. I have a job. You might not like that job, but it’s my job, and it’s  _real_ work. I do not need or  _want_  a man to pay for me. All that does is make me beholden to someone who isn’t  _me,_  and I don’t like that at all. Now if you’ve got a problem, you need to come right out and say it- or this conversation is over!” Her finger was squarely digging into his sternum by then, eyes flashing irritation. 

Stan stared her in the eyes, not sure of what to say and not wanting to back down. In the daylight, he found her eye colour to be a murky grey-green, glassy, giving her an appearance like the risen dead, filled with almost as much rage. He had to admit, she had guts. Or maybe she wasn’t afraid because to her, he was a short, fat old man, too far gone to do anything. With a deep sigh, she subsided. “Ford’s alright. Ain’t a bad guy. We ain’t lovers or nothing, if that’s what you think. We barely know each other. He’s just somewhat attracted to me, and he wanted to experiment. That’s all.”

Stan sniffed and retorted, “No, that’s _not_ all, kid. I think he’s really got a thing for you. You’re the first one I ever knew about him gettin’ this far with. That’s a big deal to him! But you don’t understand that because you don’t _know_ him.”

Shocked, Nina’s whole demeanor changed. The tension dropped from her shoulders and jaw, fists unclenching, eyes widened with surprise. “I- wait, I’m his… first… kiss?! Stan, he’s how old?! Oh my god… I- I…”  
  
“No, no, I didn’t say you were his first kiss. I’m saying you’re the first girl he’s kissed _that I know about._ We got separated for awhile, y’know, college and life stuff. I’ve just never _heard_ about another. And I ain’t gonna have you messing with his mind like he’s just a toy to get bored with and throw away.” He put his hands on his hips, anger turning into impatience. This wasn’t how he’d wanted this to go at all. Everything was wrong. Maybe it wasn’t too late… this was the same girl who’d kissed his cheek as if she was his own granddaughter. What a strange, detestable situation.

“Look, you’re just… too young for him, alright? Why don’t you date someone your own age?” he pleaded. “What is it, your dad ain’t around much? You got a thing for older men now?” Defeated, he poorly tried to broach why she would even consider thinking of his brother as she did. “Just- tell me. I’ve been all over the world, kid. I’ve done a lot of messed up stuff. I’ve seen damn near everything now, so whatever it is, I understand. The world wrecks people.”

She beckoned to him, providing him with a folding chair hidden next to a lush trellis built up in front of the fence, covered in confederate jasmine and something purple and spiky. He grumbled, following her deeper into the garden before grabbing the chair roughly, taking a seat. She sat on an overturned pot that looked suspiciously like the olive-green cap of a public utility. With the appearance of a wounded animal, she implored him. “It isn’t that, Stanley.” She slumped over, embarrassed and now desperate to hide. This garden was the world of her own making, and she found no refuge in it.

“So what is it?” he asked, seeing her again as if she was a fidgety older child of his own family. She looked up into the distant sky, into silvery clouds and deep blue of late afternoon, ruminating.

“I don’t know if I have words exactly. I tried to tell Ford. I don’t know if he listened, or if he just… brushed off what I said. Lots of people do that. I say one thing, and they make up what they wanted to hear and ignore what I told them.”

“You tried to tell Ford what?” Now he was interested.

She turned to look him, or somewhere near his face, at least. He didn’t get eye contact from her often. “I tried to tell him that I don’t do what other people call ‘serious relationships’. It isn’t about boredom, like you said. It’s that other people have demands that I can’t live up to. And I don’t feel like pretending I can. It just hurts people.” Stan was disarmed by her frank attitude.

Watching the sky again, she continued, “It ain’t about dating ‘older men’. I ain’t got problems like that- why does everyone think I do? Creepy as hell. Older men tend to have more confidence, tend to want to please more, but are usually more ‘vanilla’. Younger guys are different- more adventurous, but also more arrogant. That’s all. Like choosing between pizza and cookies. Also, I’m not monogamous. I think some people are, by nature. But I’m not. It’s got nothing to do with boredom. I can be absolutely wild about two or three different people for totally different reasons, for years and years, and none are better than the other. It’s like asking someone to choose which leg they want to walk with, sayin’ ya can’t have both… crazy! But people hear that, and then they want to fight to be the Only One. That isn’t how I work. And then the fights start. I can’t deal with that. So I stick with casual friendships and have no intention of being anyone’s girlfriend. It’s a trap! Ford accepts that, or he doesn’t. I told him already, so don’t blame _me_ if he ignores it. I had nothing to do with it. He was told. I made sure, _before_ he kissed me.”

That was a lot to take in for Stan. Sure, men would just… hook up and go. That was life, sometimes. But he wasn’t expecting such… he couldn’t even think of the word for her. What the hell did monogamy- oh, right, he knew that. She didn’t stick with one guy, but she’d have what, crushes for years at a time? Dedicated for not getting into “serious relationships”. That sounded pretty serious to him. And if she really did tell Ford this already- well, it was his own fault if he gets hurt.

Stan felt like an ass. _Of course_ Ford could handle his own business.

They sat quietly next to each other for an eternity.

“Is he okay?”

Stan almost didn’t hear her over the rustling leaves. He looked down at the pile of wild curls barely held together by padded elastic, her rounded dirt-smudged golden shoulders nearly the same colour as her hair, stooped over in poor-fitting denim covered in soil. He considered ignoring the question, but since Ford was gone for the long weekend, it might just worry her too much. Maybe she really did care about him. In retrospect, there was nothing to show that she didn’t care about either one of them. If she had kissed his brother with half the tenderness she’d shown to Stan, he could easily see how he’d be smitten with her. Ford had always been an unconventional guy who tried to do things the ‘normal’ way- and it would blow up in his face. Or suck him into an interdimensional portal. Maybe an unconventional girl is really what he’d needed all along. But there was so much about their lives, their intertwined lives, that she’d never believe- how could either of them tell her about Gravity Falls? About Bill? Would she leave? Think they’re senile?

“Yeah, kid. He’s okay.” Stan stood and stretched his back. Those folding chairs had no support at all. Maybe there was a way to test the girl on the weirdness thing, after all. Stan grinned. “He got restless here with me and went off monster hunting in the woods up north, near some lake.”

Nina huffed. “ _Monster hunting?_ What like, Bigfoot or somethin’?” she looked up at him, face scrunched in a squint. Surely, the old man is kidding!

“Nope! Monster hunting! We came down here for a snake creature in the ocean, but he didn’t find any ocean snakes, so now he’s hunting up in the woods for tree gods, giant spiders, and the Southern Bigfoot.” Now the grin was really wide, the same one he used for putting on shows at the Shack. Reel her in, set the stage. Wait for her response to give her away.

“Oh Jesus lord. That man!” She leaned back and crossed her arms. “He ain’t gonna find nothing. Maybe he’ll get the mermaids up near Dekanogeea, but they’re regular women in suits. It’s a show up there! Real famous, or it used to be. Tourist traps ain’t what they were here, since the beaches started getting too hot, too dirty. The warmer water is bringing disease…” She shook her head in disbelief.

Oh, that didn’t bode well for either of them. Then again, he didn’t really believe in monsters either, in his 20s. Maybe when he was a little kid, since kids always have big imaginations. And there was that one time they found the real Jersey Devil! But nothing prepared him for Gravity Falls ‘weird’. It’s gotta be seen to be believed. Ford must have figured she wouldn’t have enjoyed the trip, or he’d have asked her to go with him. Or he just wanted to be alone. He’d been alone for way too long in his life- maybe he just needed a taste of that, after constant contact for over a year now. Stan knew what it was like to feel ‘stuffy’, staying in one place, around too many people. Before the portal business, he’d liked the road, minus the running, stealing, and getting kicked out of every place he’d ever stopped.

Stan goaded her. “Well, that’s what he’s off to! Maybe he’ll bring home a real mermaid. Don’t think the bathtub’s gonna be big enough, though. We’ll have to build a pool. I’m thinkin’ right here, where this garden dips down.”

She rolled her eyes and laughed, shaking her head with the sheer ridiculousness of the idea. “Sure, Stan, sure he will!”

She put the chair away, hidden between trellis and fence. Stan finally took a good look around- this was a very pretty place. He wasn’t much on gardens, but this place looked like a fairy tale setting, if it weren’t for the stucco building jutting into the scene. “So, uh, you plant all this stuff?” he asked, looking for a way to lighten up.

Nina looked around as if taking inventory. “Yeah,” she nodded. “The landlord kinda knows about it. Sort of. He ain’t here much except to show empty apartments, and he usually has someone else do that. Long as I call before I dig, and don’t wreck the place, he just lets me spend money on it knowing he can kick me out whenever.”

Stan pulled at the collar of his Hawaiian shirt and groaned _oyyy_. He paused in thought. “The back, too? That’s you?”

She nodded again, explaining, “Yeah, couple years back, someone took apart an air conditioner. Copper theft. Get electrocuted that way, but they don’t care.” Tapping her foot faster, her hands fluttering in her lap as if badly playing an invisible piano, she couldn’t keep her eyes on one part of the yard while talking. Stan wondered if she was nervous or scared, but come to think of it, he’d never seen her sit still for long. “One of the neighbours back then, a big dude, caught the guy the next night when he came back for more. Was hell getting the landlord to fix them. That neighbour moved out. I planted everything sharp I could get for free. Sawgrass, snakeroot. Invasive as hell. I feel bad for a guy who tries to jump that fence now.” She motioned towards the downstairs apartment’s window. “Planted the hibiscus in front of there, too. Neighbour can get out if there’s a fire, but that window’s been broken three times by burglars. Ain’t been tried since. Bonus: keeps heat off the building in Summer.” A small touch of a smile graced her freckled face, shoulders easing back with pride. “Couldn’t get the front windows, though. Not enough garden space in front. Only a foot of dirt, no good for big protective plants. So be warned, I guess.” Stan raised his eyebrows. This place ain’t got money- why would anyone break in here? Things had changed since his day, for sure.

“So, you said you wanted to replant the front? With all that dirt and stuff?” He tried to remember how long ago that was, but he was having trouble placing it. Weeks? A month? Longer? Whenever it was, he hadn’t seen anything new.

Her face lit up. “Yeah! But I ain’t got the money yet. This month’s been hard, so I gotta save back. Still ain’t decided what to do that would look good and still live, though. All that dirt’s bad, too. No nutrients. I’ll have to buy that, too.”

Stan eyed her. Come to think of it, he’d never seen her go to work. “You said you had a job. What exactly do you do, again?” A shame they weren’t at the Shack. She’d run the counter, live in the attic. Bet she could dry and graft some really cool plant displays.

She shrugged. “Y’know. Customer support, on the phone. I got a separate phone for it than the one you got the number to. I just clock in, talk to people on the night shift. Usually weekends when it’s busy, but some week nights, too.” Sounds vague enough.

“Oh, yeah?” he said, “so you fix things?”

She grinned. “Sort of.”

When Stan found no further answers forthcoming, he figured he’d drop the subject. She’d tell him if she wanted to. He was the same way. They had a little more in common than he’d realized.

He looked at her a long time, taking in her image. Rough, dirty, slightly muscular from lifting bags of soil. Golden from sunlight, with fine lines creasing her face already. This place, this little tiny space on the side of a broken down former Section 8 building, was truly hers. It _felt_ like her. If she hadn’t been wearing modern clothes, he might have mistaken her for something odd and humanoid, like he was home with Soos again.

“Hey, uh, Nina.” Stan called, heading for the fence door.

“Yeah?” she responded, following after him.

“Er. I don’t really apologize much. But uh. Yeah. Look. I didn’t mean for everything to come out like I wanted to scare you off. I just don’t want to see my brother get hurt. He’s been through a lot.”

“Like ‘Nam?”

Stan froze for a split second, silent, one hand paused on the lock tab.

“I know you two ain’t soldiers, Stanley, but it’s cool. I checked up on you both. FOIA. One of you is dead, neither ever military boys. So whatever you guys did, whatever happened, it fucked you both up, and you don’t wanna talk about it. I get that. So you hid it with the manliest-sounding thing you could think of. I just wish that if Ford had a problem with me, he’d bring it to me, and not just to you.” Her hand brushed against his as she pulled the door open for him. Stan was dumbfounded- then suddenly, in gratitude, pulled her in for a crushing bear hug. His freshly-washed shirt was going to be filthy and he didn’t care. He just hoped that what he’d heard was for real, that she was for real, honest. The words ‘thank you’ escaped his mouth several times before he could stop. She held him for a moment and kissed his cheek, breathing in his ear, _“I won’t tell.”_

She left him standing there, sliding past him to go inside. Stan sat in the garden still, frozen with the sight of Eden, dizzied by conflicting emotion and the scent of flowers, lulled by bees buzzing nearby. Before he could stop, he was in tears over something he could not name.


	10. Getting Away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ford has to get away for a bit. Just a weekend.
> 
> TW: mention of assault, happily returned with broken bones.

Silvery skies gave way to drizzling rains and cool breezes. It was nothing compared to a winter up North, but Ford suspected that the locals weren’t accustomed to decent weather, given how quickly people pulled on hoodies and ran for shelter or their umbrellas. In any event, he was happy to be out by himself for a little while. Nothing was wrong with Stan; he was just… restless. Aimless, needing direction. There was no rest on the water, not really. There was always something to look out for: storms, monsters, shallow waters, fuel levels, food levels… but in this apartment setting, everything was so… stable. He couldn’t handle it. The cold sweats when a carton of soda ran out (logically, he knew he would just buy more; but before, food foraging was the height of importance.) Anxious energy, wanting to bolt from place- but there was nothing to run from.

He had considered using this adrenaline rush issue to take up exercise again. There weren’t many exercises of value he could perform on a boat, and if going to a gym might alleviate some of the random bouts of aggression, of fear, and provide relief, he was all about it. Unfortunately, there were only two gyms within a reasonable driving distance: one which was ridiculously expensive for their outdated equipment and restrictive hours, and another which had more to offer but required a membership. He loathed signing up for anything, especially since he and Stan shared one ID. The second option in itself wasn’t ‘unfortunate’. It was the timing. Nina hadn’t seen him, but he had seen her when he walked in. He was somewhat impressed with her shoulder definition. Despite being chubby in the upper arms and thick in the waist, she could lift more than he expected.

But then the desk clerk/trainer noticed, too, and wanted to make conversation. Ford tried to politely steer the subject away but the guy just wasn’t following. Then he heard about how he shouldn’t talk to her- she was a man-hating bitch of a lesbian who had broken a guys’ fingers a few months before, and didn’t even get arrested for it. _She should have been,_ the guy said. The broken-fingered guy in question? He had grabbed her ass while she was working cable flys. _But so what? She was hot! It’s not like she was hurt, am I right?!_ It angered Ford so much that he grabbed his keys, pressing them into his palms until he felt like he would bleed, threw the chair back, and stormed out without saying anything. Another thing he missed about the other side of the portal: in many places, he would have been within rights to punch someone like him. Here, he had to keep his head down and mouth shut to not attract cops. If this was the caliber of men her own age, was it any wonder she had said they were awful? ‘Awful’ is the kindest word he could think of for people like that.

Ford needed to get away from other people as quickly as possible. With an outdated rumour nearly forty years gone that one of the ‘mermaids’ of another tourist town near a freshwater spring was an actual mermaid that other performing women hid in plain sight, he wanted to camp out and see what else he could find. He was lucky that this time of year was off-season. Campgrounds fares were dirt-cheap, there was plenty of land around without having to see many people, and it put Ford back in an environment he could be at ease with: one where he had reason to always be on alert. No rifts to look out for, but lots of wildlife to see. And maybe, just maybe, he’ll get a glimpse of something weird.

Two days in, he thought he might have seen a will-o’-the-wisp, an odd, lilting light leading into deep woods. Being unfamiliar with the terrain, he decided to make notes about it and follow as far as he could with the camera on his phone. He wanted to study its movement patterns in the morning and explore the woods to better know where he was headed in the darkness in the event it returned. But he hadn’t seen it since. Instead, he moved closer towards the deep natural spring he had come to see. The mermaid shows had long been moved to a facility with large glass pool-like tanks in order to preserve natural resources (and regulate the conditions the women worked in), but maybe the mermaid stayed… small chance, but a bath in a clean lake would do wonders for his attitude.

Ford brought only what he could carry, including a tarp for the wet weather. More often than not, he was used to scavenging for branches or bridges when looking for shelter. For him, a tarp was a bonus. He scouted for his site, checking for drainage and less-than-adequate trees that might have rot or termites, despite the forecast for only mild rain. Throwing the tarp down before constructing an A-frame pitch using nearby trees and a rope, he felt strangely relaxed, practiced. His hands knew how to tie knots without him needing to look. Although the day still had plenty of hours in it, he curled up under the makeshift shelter and fell asleep, dreaming of a deep blue-green crystal lake swirling with brilliant gold and orange fish, speckled black and white, and a mermaid who beckoned to him- a mermaid with tawny hair like seaweed, a deep lapis lazuli, gold-flecked tail, and the face of Nina.

 


	11. Work sucks.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Burnout" is the Fun Thing people don't talk about.

The phone beeped to end another call. Nina barely had the energy to stretch all the way out on the couch, throwing one arm over the side, her face cradled in the crook of her other elbow. The elastic of the socks she wore were starting to itch; she absentmindedly scratched the inside of her ankle with the toes of her other foot. Work was just _exhausting_. Pretending to care, pretending to be interested, pretending to be _interesting_. Knowing which phrases and words to say to get the most money, the most response, to keep the customer on the phone the longest and to keep them coming back for more. It was all so hard to keep up with and the burnout would last hours, sometimes for days. While the women were usually fine, just needing some safety and encouragement to seek the pleasure they desired, the men were… quite the opposite. Degrading and… gross.

She thought it had nothing to do with her, naturally. They had problems with women, which is why they couldn’t keep a relationship in ‘real life’. They needed to pay a woman to pretend to like them over the phone and still couldn’t take the hint. Occasionally, when she really didn’t like a customer at all and wanted to be rid of him, she would refuse to play the game and instead would twist anything he said into a deep-digging wound without even a tone of malice; to twist the knife, she kept an air of extreme boredom to reinforce that he wasn’t interesting and wasn’t worth her time. And that, too, kept men on the phone long enough to pay her bills. Some even preferred it- and if that was the case, she would put him on speaker and watch television shows she didn’t even like, just to maintain power over the customer. It was a rough game, but who said work was fun? Sex work was a job like any other. Clock in, deal with shitty customers, clock out, collect the paycheque at the end of the week, keep track of expenses, pay taxes. The real trick is keeping one’s sanity on shift.

This month was rough. Either there was more competition, she was losing her edge, or people just didn’t have as much disposable money right now. She would cry out of frustration and defeat, but she was bone-achingly tired, too tired for even that. Glancing at the monitor on her coffee table, she had only worked for three hours so far. Losing her edge, then. Burnout.

Burnout terrified Nina. Burnout meant all the desire and need to accomplish daily tasks, but not being able to even move on her own. Showering once every… week or so, instead of daily. Not being able to clean anything around her. Screaming internally to just… brush her teeth. _Just do it. It’s twelve steps, you don’t even have to stand while doing it, just-_ Sleeping ten hours a day and still being tired. She hated the powerlessness and paralysis of wanting to get up and walk the five metres to the kitchen, but being unable to even microwave a meal. If she poured cereal, would she have the strength to chew it? _Oh god, what would Ford think?_ Her mind raced _. I can’t do this again, not right now… why does this keep happening to me?_ She had gone to doctors, but everyone told her it’s in her head, nothing is wrong, she was making things up for attention… but she wasn’t making it up. And in a few weeks, she’d be better. She just had to stick it out and make some money now to pay the bills.

She slid off the couch onto the cold tile floor, pinched between upholstery and hard wood, crumpled with defeat. The phone still clutched in her hand, her personal phone resting precariously near the edge of the surface of the coffee table. As she lay there, nearly immobile, she tried to calm herself. Thoughts flowed half-formed, desperately needing to be ordered, but muddied to the point of incoherence. The only thing that really got through was the idea that some bills could be left unpaid, and the late fees wouldn’t kill her. Missing payments was a rare thing, a feat nearly unheard of for someone with her (lack of) resources. No roommates, no husband, no family to rely on. Life wasn’t fancy, but she made it on her own. For that, she was proud of herself, and equally disappointed that she had let herself down again, mysterious illness or no.

The phone was ringing. She blinked, coming back to consciousness. When had she dozed off? Yes, that repetitive buzzing, jingling sound that sent vibrations down the wood and into her arm was definitely a phone ringing and not the alarm going off. For a moment, she was confused, checking the phone still in her hand- the ‘work phone’, but the screen was dark. Her neck aching, lower back screaming, she sat up to swipe at the phone on the table. On the last ring, she answered.

“Oh- hey Stan. How’re-“

The rough voice on the other end of the phone asked for help downstairs. Stan didn’t sound panicked at all, she thought. He had a tone closer to someone asking for help unloading groceries. Even so, with a guy like Stan, who knows. She told him that she’d be right down and hung up. Stumbling over her own feet, dizzy from standing far too quickly, she almost fell over in her hurry to race to the rescue. She stopped by the door to pull off the socks that had annoyed her so much, tossing them aside, before looking around the room for what she was forgetting. Still mentally cloudy, with an odd warm sensation just in one side of her head, she closed the door and trotted down the stairs as fast as possible.

She didn’t immediately see Stan in the parking lot so she took a chance on letting herself into his apartment. The tightness in her chest unclenched a little as the doorknob turned in her hand, the lock clicking open, letting her in. Inhaling deeply, she rounded the short hallway of the entrance, only perhaps two metres, light on her feet and quick to her steps. The lights were on, she noted the smell of food cooking- had he fallen? The heat in her left temple swelled into the back of her neck, leaving her gripping the bar counter for balance. But the kitchen was empty, aside from meat and onions cooking in a pan, and the oven light on as well. Nothing burning. Maybe-

            Ford walked in the front entrance first, chattering on about a strange light at a campgrounds, his face shoved in a nicely-bound sketchbook of some kind. Stan followed behind him, perfectly safe and sound. Nina sort of heard what Stan was saying, but his words were garbled and nonsensical, like listening to people talk on the surface when swimming in the deep end of a pool. Lightheaded and weighed down all at once, succumbing to a swell of nausea, the suddenly darkening room took her; the men watched in confusion, then horror, as she collapsed to the ground.


	12. Hospitals are awful.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Take your meds. Drink plenty of fluids. This is your reminder. <3

“Nina? … Stan, I think she’s waking up,” murmured a familiar voice in the distance.

 _Warm._ Everything was too warm, especially her feet and her neck. But trying to escape the warmth took so much effort and was only rewarded with 'too cold'. With all of her strength, she turned onto her side and cuddled with someone very comfy that smelled good. Red. Soft. Ideas, conceptions of these things floated through her mind, trying to find a place where language and meaning crossed paths, but they floated away before they could connect to anything. A heavy arm bracing against hers, pulling her closer to his body, stroking her shoulders, her hair. Heavy weight settling on the other side, shifting the mattress. New smell of musty sweat crossing with preceding scent of the outdoors, a pleasant smell she involuntarily buried her face into. Soft laughter, deep and rumbling.

“Nina, talk to us. Are you okay? Should we take you to a hospital?” someone asked in a cracked, grating voice. It sounded like it came from someone who sang for a screaming hair metal band for twenty years too long before retiring. She knew that voice. Family member? No, they would have just left her someplace. Hospital- was she sick? It felt like it. Body aching, too hot. Sick. Made sense.

“Too hot. Tired,” was all she could manage out of a parched throat. The red expanse she was wrapped up with flexed and slid back down, while the weight behind her released. Person. She knew him. Stanley. Red. Ford? Ford’s comforting stroking, releasing tension that filled her neck, also helped to lessen some of the nausea and pain. He was gentle but firm, alternating between long, slow lines and drumming fingers in denser places in her muscle. The pressure near the outline of the right shoulderblade caused her to tear up from pain, a small whimper escaping her lips, buried somewhere in the side of his black denim-covered thigh.

“I don’t think she needs a hospital yet, but I do think she has a rotator cuff injury, some kind of spinal damage, and perhaps low blood sugar. Look how pale and waxy her skin is- she needs to eat. Do we have any soda in the fridge? That should help.” The sharper planes in Ford’s face were more pronounced when he was under duress, his jaw clenched from stress, eyes narrowed even through his thick lenses. How the hell did this happen to her? Had Stanley seen her earlier that day? Was she injured then?

Something freezing cold brushed against her lips as the burlier brother held her up, bracing her against his body at a shallow angle. They lacked straws, so Ford held her jaw and dripped just a small amount of juice into her mouth at a time. Stan watched his brother’s face for reaction; he knew that for all of Ford’s nitpicking, he would know what they needed to do. Guilt washed over him- he should have known, she hadn’t picked up the phone the first time he called but her car was in the lot but she said she worked nights on the phone sometimes but Ford had just come back and he wanted to know if she could help them by sharing dinner and and and… He rested his head against hers, inhaling deeply to avoid another outburst. But then, he thought, what if he hadn’t called? What if this happened upstairs and she was alone? They would never have known she needed help. She was sick and she came running to them. Did she even hear what he’d said? Or just the ‘help’ part? Any doubts he had about her intentions towards them washed away as he held her more tightly to him.

Ford checked her pulse. Thready, but still there. She no longer had the cold sweat on her forehead. Encouraging. Muscles were still quite tense. Not encouraging; perhaps she had a history of hypertension. That would cause fainting episodes. So would not eating. Women seemed to have many insecurities about their weight, but Ford couldn’t discern if she’d ever made a self-deprecating ‘joke’ about that. He would have to ask her. The remaining juice set aside, he leaned closely against Stan’s shoulder and wrapped his arm around Nina, once again asleep. The boys locked eyes with each other, each sending a wordless message only twin brothers could understand: both were worried, even if she was still relatively a stranger to them. Ford glanced around the room before settling on the front door. Jogging his memory, he realized that neither of them had seen Nina’s keys or her phone in Stan’s apartment. She must still have them upstairs. Stan nodded at him, agreeing with Ford’s unsaid statement.

“You should get her stuff.”

Ford checked Nina’s breathing one more time before leaving to lock her apartment for her. He even thought to grab her wallet from the counter- just in case.

 

* * *

 

‘Occipital neuralgia’ paired with a nasty case of dehydration, and thus low blood pressure, became the quasi-official diagnosis. It was the best guess the physician could give. Nina had a few symptoms of a transient ischemic attack, a mini-stroke, but they didn’t make sense- and no evidence of a stroke could be found in MRIs. The facial numbness on only the left side, and her self-reported bouts of numbness in the arm, were unusual, but… there was nothing particularly unusual about her CBC, other than higher than normal lymphocytes to suggest an infection, and the only real issue they could find was a rotator cuff injury. As for the fainting, an EKG found nothing abnormal either. Feasibly, it could have been that the exact nature of her fall and the circumstances of her fatigue could have meant some kind of positional issue with blood flow. The shoulder muscles being intricately intertwined with spinal nerves could possibly have caused the issue. There was a herniated disc in her neck as well; thus, the occipital nerve was blamed for some of the strange headache-like symptoms, and nerve damage paired with low blood pressure would explain some of the others. Sudden change from lying on the floor to running down a flight of stairs in that state could have also triggered orthostatic hypotension (as the heart rate should adjust blood pressure when standing or sitting, the reason some feel lightheaded if standing too quickly, but low blood pressure to begin with would cause a disruption). He was surprised she didn’t faint in the stairwell. In short, nothing terribly out of the ordinary run of injuries, and nothing dangerous. She simply had to be much more careful about her workout regimen, visit a physical therapist for some time, and remember to drink more water. Also, she should stand more slowly if possible, just in case.

Embarrassment didn’t begin to cover how she felt, but her blank expression remained unchanged. Stan recognized the desperate look in her eye and suggested that it was time to wrap things up and go home. Ford would get the car. He drove more safely, accurately than Stan did. Nina hated hospitals. Hated everything about them. The disturbingly strong scent of chemical sanitizer, plastics, hand sanitizer, and the peculiar smell that only hospital linens and mid-priced hotel beds share. The lights everywhere were piercingly white, the steady pulse of fluorescents causing physical pain to her eyes. How did anyone bear this every day, ten to fourteen hours at a time? It was becoming too much. Even the fabric of her own clothing began to scratch at her skin. Every sense was becoming overstimulated, sharpened by the pain of the IV fluid line-in being taken out. They always say it’s just a sharp pinch, but they lie. Or can they not feel the line the whole time? She could intimately tell exactly where shots or piercings were, whether they were in properly or not. White-blue pain wouldn’t lie. She didn’t want to walk, but she didn’t want to stay there another moment. Then there was talking and words, and having to keep up with words, and figuring out what the words meant, and trying to get the ones she remembered hearing back in order to make them make sense, and then she had to figure out if they meant she needed to respond, and then if she needed to respond what was the appropriate response? And then…

 _Pain._ Stan held her arm. The sensation wasn’t unwanted, only any kind of touch was suddenly too intense. He patiently guided her out of the room, down a hallway, and sat her in a dull blue padded chair. There was a person in front of her in grey and white office attire devoid of jewellery, her rust and salt hair tied back with a kind of combined hairnet and bow clip. She also said some things that Nina couldn’t process, but the points where Nina was supposed to nod or shake her head were minimally followed, so Nina was passed a short stack of paperwork to sign. Reading was easier than following spoken language. She could take as long as she needed to figure out what written words said. They wouldn’t change on her, and she could look at them twice or ten times without being yelled at for not paying attention the first time. She signed her name and initials in various places. Stan followed along, making sure it was completely filled out. When she paused for the date, he supplied the answer. Finally, she handed in the last page, received a copy, and was given a short stack of paperwork indicating local clinics and follow-up locations. She nodded while Stan thanked the staff. He tapped Nina on the shoulder; time to go. Stan leaned on his cane at the door, keeping a sharp eye on Nina, waiting to take her out so they could go home.

The breeze had developed a sharp chill by the time they exited, tunneling through the Emergency Exit/Entrance driveway. Ford waited with the motor running. It was nearly four in the morning, and he was exhausted. He knew Stan was as well, but at least Stan had a brief nap with Nina against him. Ford, paranoid, had stayed awake just in case. It was by far not the first time he had been awake for a few days without sleep, but getting older meant that his body liked it less each time. He wanted to go home and pass out. He’d set an alarm for noon so that at least he wouldn’t have to adjust an entire sleeping cycle. Stan opened the rear door, like a gentleman, and made sure Nina was comfortably seated before closing it for her. He piled himself in the front, taking charge of the A/C and radio immediately. Ford was far too tired to care. Nina cried as silently as possible, having held it in for what felt like hours. Ford glanced at her in the rearview mirror. “Are you alright? Do we need to turn around?” he asked, hesitant to hear an answer that might be ‘yes’. Nina shook her head, reassuring him that it was just… everything was too much, and she’d calm down soon. To just ignore her if she was being this way. Neither man liked that idea; Stan didn’t like seeing girls cry, and Ford angrily wanted to know who would ignore her if she was that sick.

The three trudged into Ford’s apartment. Stan immediately stripped down to boxers and socks, dropping his clothes as he walked. Nina was hardly affected by this sight, but was unsure of protocol for her own state of dress. Ford still sometimes slept fully-dressed; no guidance there. She saw her keys on the counter and decided to return to her own bed, but Ford wouldn’t hear of it. She would not be left unattended after an episode like that- at least, not for a day or so. Also, he did not like the idea of her walking up the stairs by herself tonight. And yet, there wasn’t room on the pull-out bed for all three of them. He sighed; upstairs she went. She hugged Stan goodnight, not at all put off by his aging skin, coarse body hair, or the click of his dentures being removed for nightly cleaning. She considered that these were all quite normal, natural things for a person to have, no more disdainful than freckles or an ear piercing. His heavy arms wrapped around her in return while he marveled at the lack of revulsion that so many young people held towards old men like him. _Childlike,_ he thought.

Ford followed Nina up the stairs closely, bracing himself on the banister in case she fell backwards into him. He would catch her if she fainted again. She hadn’t remembered to bring the rest of her things up with her; he would have to return them in the morning. _Later today,_ he corrected himself. Her hands shook as she tried to unlock the door. Ford inhaled slowly, waiting for the lock to slide, as she used one hand to steady the other for the deadbolt. The room was pitch-black. She fumbled along the wall for a light, running her hand along the kitchen wall over the countertop to find the switch. The startling, aggressive sound of the garbage disposal shrieked into the stillness for a brief moment before she flipped the correct switch. Golden light filled the kitchen, flooding into the living room before spilling some of its glare into a dim bedroom.

Ford locked the door behind him and ushered her into bed. She was absolutely going to stay there and get more rest, not endangering herself again, as far as he was concerned. Wearily, he sank onto the foot of the mattress, taking in his first look at what he thought of as an intimate space. The sheets were so, so soft- “Organic high-thread count cotton,” she said. The blinds had broken pieces missing or fallen, held on only by strings. She had covered these with sheer curtains. Next to her bed, a small marble-topped table in disrepair, cluttered with a short stack of books, crowned by an alarm clock, accompanied by a silver lamp dripping in plastic strands of beads like raindrops. The Asimov book caught his eye. It was one he’d never read before.

He considered again that she could not sleep downstairs with him, not having any room. She could sleep next to Stan, and he could sleep on the floor- but that hadn’t occurred to him in time. They were already up here. She was in the bathroom, wiping off the smell of the hospital. It gave Ford a moment to think about his options. She could not be left alone; that he had decided already. That was final. He could sleep on the couch. His phone was still in his pocket. He had to text Stan, and was grateful that they had both learned how to enlarge messages for easier reading. Ford was losing some of his upper-range in hearing, much to his chagrin, so texting was often best. If he could get the tiny keyboard to cooperate with his fingers.

Nina emerged, looking ragged but at least smelling somewhat better. Coconut baby wipes smelled a lot better than hospital cleaner, for sure. Fatigued, she crawled up next to Ford, thanking him again. “Maybe next time, no hospital, more sports drinks,” she suggested.

Ford was too tired to be stern with her, shaking his head in response. “Nina, you need to take better care of yourself. It won’t happen again if you do.” She pursed her lips, not wanting to tell him that she’d had no energy lately to do anything, much less… it didn’t matter.

“You said you didn’t want me to be alone? You can sleep in the bed with me…” she offered.

Ford’s posture stiffened a little. She laughed under her breath. “I’ll keep my clothes on. Won’t mess with you. You wanna?” she asked again, reaching for dear Sixer’s hand. He twitched in response. It was unexpected to be asked to bed. In retrospect, of course she would, but at the moment… shouldn’t he… be…

“I think I will, thank you. Give me a moment to let Stan know,” he said, secretly elated that he could sleep next to her. He had held her for hours already that night, but that was different. She was sick, she was in danger. There was no danger now. He could just relax next to her, soft skin and tousled hair and pleasingly curved figure and… it was a blessing. He counted his blessings silently with every digital letter tapped onto glass, sent to Stanley’s phone, letting him know not to worry and that he was going to be in Nina’s bed that night. Obviously, to make sure she doesn’t relapse. Of course. That was the whole reason, no ‘funny business’. He turned out the light and only removed his long-sleeved flannel to reveal a bleached white undershirt, reminding himself to take off his shoes and socks before sinking into pillows that smelled faintly of fruit, jasmine, and _her_. As he sank further into sleep, his faint snoring giving away the deeper cycles, she wrapped her body against his and shut her eyes.


	13. Pulling Triggers, Casting Anchors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pulling triggers and casting anchors. That's the beginning of recovery, isn't it? Ford needs to figure out how to tell what is real, and how to keep himself from second-guessing too much.

Her kitchen filled with the scent of eggs and turkey bacon as Stan hummed away, expertly managing multiple pans while Ford and Nina shared the two-seater table shoved into a corner. Jokingly, she asked when Ford was going to man the stove. He feinted, quipping “when were you going to invite me to a bonfire on the beach?” Bonfire cooking was the kind he’d become most accustomed to for the past few decades. He had been taught basic cooking skills before then, of course. His mother always wanted help in the kitchen, and informed them both that a man who cannot cook for himself isn’t worth having to a girlfriend. Stan was better at it, but Ford’s cooking was passable. It became easier when he began using recipes, which helped codify the experience into something he could follow, as opposed to his mother’s more intuitive “how much cumin to add? Smell the spices. Divine the bubbles. Shout it to the stars!” method. But he had since lost his touch. Perhaps he could ask Stan at some point… or wait until Stan wasn’t- he had his own apartment now. He could put it on the list of skills to re-acquire.

Nina was lost on the bonfire comment until he explained that he often cooked over an open fire. Her eyes widened, completely impressed. It had been many years since she had ‘camping food’: safe foods like baked potatoes and some kind of cinnamon sugar twist wrapped in tinfoil on a rack over the flames. Foods without any spicy flavours, especially yellow or white foods, were ‘safe to try even if unfamiliar’ in her book. And Ford could cook over a fire and not burn everything? She’d never been very good at that, and decided that she wanted to see Ford’s skill for herself. She asked them both if they could have a bonfire at some point. ‘At some point’ meant that she was not being pushy or demanding, and also that it signaled that she knew it might never happen. That was what other people meant when they said that, right? Stan chuckled; he hadn’t had a beach bonfire in a long time. It sounded like fun, especially now that winter was setting in. Winter in a Southern state, anyways. Never very cold weather compared to the North, except for the wet, icy wind that blew through in short spats at a time. A bonfire might be nice to have, soon.

Ford listened to them chatter aimlessly while basking in the small details of that moment. It helped keep him grounded, fixed on the idea that he was really home, that this was real. Sometimes he felt almost absent, like he was watching his own body do and say things. Outside of himself, or somehow like what was happening around him wasn’t actually going on. He’d have intense dreams about the sounds and smells and sights of home, of waking up, thrashing in bed in his Gravity Falls house, with Stan shaking him to snap out of it. They’d talk about something, and then… that was all a dream. He’d wake up in some far-flung alien planet or weird dimension where everything was made of sharp angles and rounded things were discriminated against, and have to bolt immediately, running for his life. This was a moment that was beginning to feel like it wasn’t real. The quiet, seeping paranoia was beginning to kick in before the accelerated heart rate of an impending panic attack. _Panic attack_ , he learned, having read the newly-updated DSM-V. Common to those who had experienced life-altering or traumatizing events. How many per week had he experienced? He never counted, he just thanked whatever had allowed him to escape and went on to the next catastrophe-in-waiting.

Waking up this afternoon had felt real. He was stretched out on his back, a weight in the crook of his arm. Gold and mouse-brown colouring amongst grey swaths of fabric until he found his glasses nearby to make sense of the colours. Nina’s arm wrapped around his bared waist felt real, slipped under his crumpled shirt, draped over the elastic line of his boxers. Holding her tightly as she woke felt real. Showering with her, stroking her body, her back, her breasts covered in fragrant suds certainly felt real. His body’s response felt real, even if unwanted and embarrassing. Kissing her again felt real, her newly minty-fresh mouth warm and responsive to his velvet tongue and impatient whine escaping between their lips. This scenario in her kitchen had a distant, dream-like quality that began to somehow feel orchestrated and… _fake,_ somehow. But how, he couldn’t figure it out. It was disheartening to see in black and white text that this condition would leave him unable to discern reality on his own. The only person he trusted for most of his life was himself. That, too, was a symptom of extreme emotional abuse. The only way out, he thought, was to… not bask in unreality, but to use his trusted intellect to steer him straight. Then he remembered: _triggers_.

A “trigger,” he learned, was an event just as serious as pulling the trigger of a gun pointed at someone. An ‘event’ was an event in the computing sense: any _thing_ that happens, which is linked to the traumatic event somehow. These are often random, coded by the brain during the traumatic event in mysterious and complex ways still not yet understood, which can link back to the event long after the danger has passed. In the same way that the scent of a specific soap can bring back lush memories of a curvy, dimpled woman in his arms, something about what was happening was causing a loss of reality and a sense of deep, abiding paranoia and fear. There was often no way to truly “get over” triggers; there is only some degree of an ability to manage them if they are not too strong. The difference between a dislike and a trigger is immense. A person exposed to their trigger is, he recalled, in a quite realistic sense, in danger- even if the ‘only’ danger is that they can no longer stop themselves from crying, hyperventilating, dissociating… depersonalizing, is what Ford decided he was probably doing. He needed to re-establish reality without letting the other two know that there was a serious problem. He had already been a burden on Stan for thirty years. Stan had already done so much to help him in Gravity Falls. He had already helped him reconnect with dozens of people he had known. He wanted help, but… how to do it without… how did he tell Stan how serious this was, how worried he was that he was losing it, without also causing Stan to be afraid, too?

Nina realized something was wrong very quickly. She didn’t quite know how she knew, but something about Ford’s energy, maybe something small about how he sat, was just… he had a _wrongness_ to him. He still sounded like Ford, and did ‘Ford things’, and drank his coffee and smiled when Stan made a joke, but something was off. She thought he looked like she felt when she started getting overstimulated and needed a ‘break’ from noise and people. “Hey, Stan?” she interrupted. “Can Ford and I run downstairs real quick? We’ll be right back up. Can I grab a soda from you guys’ apartment?”

Stan was loading plates and flashed her a grin. “Sure thing, kiddo! Hurry up- this food ain’t getting any hotter!”

Nina nodded eagerly and pulled at Ford’s sleeve. “You said you didn’t want me to go up and down the stairs alone today. Get a soda with me? I don’t have any,” she implored, for once looking him directly in the eye, unblinking. Not knowing what she was really getting at, but thankful for a distraction, he pushed in his chair and headed out the door with her.

As soon as the door was closed, she turned on him. “What’s wrong, Ford.” It wasn’t a question. It also wasn’t a question Ford knew how to answer.

“That’s nice, Ford. Really. You don’t look okay.” Now Ford worried that something externally gave him away, both thankful that something might so he wouldn’t have to announce his feelings, but also damning the idea as a weakness. “Ford,” she said quietly, reproachfully. She sighed before starting again, taking his hand in hers, gently stroking his fingers. “Is it too much noise or something?” Confused, he denied the idea. “Okay. Do you feel like… hmm, like having a lot going on sometimes just- makes you want to… I don’t know, hide, or explode, or run?” Ford wasn’t sure how to answer that, silently thinking _yes_.

Noting his silence, she cocked her head to the side and asked something else. “Do you ever feel like… I don’t know how to say it. Like you know the stuff is real around you, but you’re pretty convinced that maybe it isn’t? Like if you were to, say, pull your skin off, maybe you were only dreaming and you’d find a robot arm or something? But you aren’t dreaming?” That was an odd, grotesque thing to ask. But… also yes. And still, he did not respond. Nina’s unblinking gaze noted the shift in his shoulders then. She decided that it might be an admission. “Hon, if you get like that… can you tell me? Or we can make a signal if you can’t talk? Um. I…” she hesitated. “I know you think… I’m probably just stupid. Or crazy. Mostly crazy. Or both. Most people think that. They tell me I’m stupid and crazy, I don’t have to guess about it. But I get like that too, sometimes. And it’s really hard to do stuff when you can’t figure out if a conversation is even really happening.” She looked away from him, somewhere near his feet, terribly exposed.

“Does it get better?” he asked, already knowing the truth.

She bit her lip, chewing the inside of her cheek. Slowly, she shook her head. “Sorry, babe.”

His jaw tightened in resolve. This, as surreal as it felt, was probably real. It was too awful not to be. How did she know how he felt? How had she known to reach out to him then? Who hurt her badly enough for her to live this way?

As always, in the moment of escape, he thanked whatever had let him survive. Nina had shrunken in on herself it seemed, sticking to her mission of claiming three sodas from his refrigerator. She stopped short when he didn’t move from the doorway. Ford silently, calmly took the sodas from her hands, placed them on the counter, and pulled her into his chest for a long, tight embrace. Maybe, if trauma could create triggers, he could also create anchors- as a ship anchors in one place, one real place, he could anchor himself, too.

Stan cocked an eyebrow at Ford when they returned, cans in hand, metal sweating and obviously out of the fridge for more than a few minutes. Ford mouthed _“We’ll talk later”_ before taking a plate, leaning against the counter to eat. Nina followed suit, also taking a plate and offering a cola to Stan, thanking him politely for lunch, kissing his cheek as usual. Stan looked between them and shook his head before grabbing his own plate and claiming a seat at her little table. Conversation started right back up with talk of planning a beach trip. They could show her their boat! She’d rarely been on a boat in her life, mostly only canoes in shallow beaches further South, where huge sandbar islands could be mostly walked to. She hated fiddler crabs, and the boys laughed when she revealed a fear of all crabs and crustaceans of any kind. Ford thought her comparison to a high-level armoured spider in games to be especially funny. Maybe they could find a common game and play together? Stan offered what he tried to offer his grand-niece and nephew: fishing lessons. Nina did not know how to fish, and only held a vague conception of “put fishing line on a pole with a hook at the end. Dunk into water and wait.” Clearly it was more complicated, and she was interested in this skill. Stan beamed with pride. He was so gonna mess with her on that fishing trip.


	14. Beaches

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A day at the beach for the boys and their tag-along.

Her toes dug into cool, wet sand. It was a warmer Wednesday, hot in the sky and still cold in the water. The not-quite-gritty solidity of imported beach replenishment sand was very different from the harsher, rockier dirt from hours further south; much more pleasant. The tank-style bathing suit hugged her form in a way that made her a little self-conscious, so she had layered an oversized, thin sweater over it and carried a small bag containing sunblock and more clothing stuffed under her towel. In any event, they were going to spend much of the day on the boat after lunch.

Stan said the best fishing is really early in the morning or later in the evening, when the sky is still darker and the fish can’t see your shadow so easily. He also said that he hated early mornings and had eaten too many fish in the past few years- so many that he might start turning into one. Ford turned to him, eyebrow raised. “You think?” he said. “Does that happen in this dimension?”

Stan rolled his eyes and playfully punched his shoulder. “It does not, Sixer, and you know it!”

Ford grinned wide, eyes flashing with delight. “Are you sure? If you start feeling… scaly… we could always build you a tank!”

“ _You’re_ built like a tank!” Stan shot back, before his brain caught up with what he said. “I mean, you’re rusty, slow, and always need someone to steer you right!” he finished.

Nina quietly followed behind them, listening intently to what they said and how each reacted. She had seen many people bond by insulting each other, but every time she had tried to do the same, it came out horribly wrong and everyone ended up angry with her for reasons she could never understand. It was easier to say nothing and pretend she wasn’t listening or paying attention. Then the worst anyone could say was that she was ‘air-headed’, or a ‘space-case’. There was a notable difference between someone who ‘just didn’t like’ her and someone who was hostile and angry. That difference sometimes meant a beating or her things being destroyed, so the choice was obvious to her. Still, there was a lot to learn about what was said, what wasn’t said- what insults they thought were friendly, and which ones hurt the other.

“Hey, aren’t ya gonna catch up?” Stan asked, looking back at their guest.

Nina grinned. “Oh, just letting you two catch up… honestly, I think one of you will catch hands faster than you catch fish…”

Stan looked confused for a moment, thinking of the Hand Witch in Gravity Falls. There wasn’t one _here_ , was there? She must be kidding! Ford laced an arm around her shoulder and made some quiet comment Stan couldn’t hear, but it had Nina smiling and amused, slightly pink across the cheeks. He turned his head away to watch the beach when she slid her hand up Ford’s back, seeking skin under his shirt. This whole “Ford having a girlfriend” thing was too weird, weirder still by the stark contrast in their appearances. He felt a slight pang of- ‘ _of what? Not jealousy, of course not… I ain’t jealous…’_ when he watched them together. _‘But it would be nice,’_ he thought, _‘to have someone like that.’_ Someone he liked but who didn’t need to be around him all the time. He didn’t have energy for “relationship stuff” these days. At least she had made no effort to take Ford away. Come to think of it, she didn’t often even like to stand between them. She usually picked a side or stayed behind them. Weird.

The docks were quite a walk from the main beach, but Stan had insisted on getting lunch first. Nina agreed with him. Her grandfather had a ‘tradition’: beach days meant cheeseburgers, fries, and root beer. There were a lot of beach days since he worked on boats. Nina wasn’t even her name; it’s just what everyone called her. Her name was Marina, mostly because her working-class family lived near one marina after another, but no one would say ‘Rina’ so it became ‘Nina’. Stan wanted to know if she had told her grandfather about her new boyfriend yet, and how he would take it. She nodded seriously over a bite, thinking over the answer while she chewed. “I didn’t know him that well. But I think out of the lot, he was the kindest. Maybe that’s why everyone shut him out, too. I don’t think he’d like my decision, but if he got to know either of you, maybe he would have made new friends.” Ford offered his condolences, to which Nina just shook her head. “He went quick, from what I heard. Cancer. Just… crept up. He was like me, that way. Not sick, not sick, not sick- hospital time.” She shrugged and smiled. “Guess I got that from him. That, and a love of a decent cheeseburger. This place needs to season the meat more, but it ain’t bad.” Stan gave her a quick hug and dropped another soda in her bag, unopened for later.

Ford often forgot to eat, insisting that he wasn’t hungry, until Stan would push him into it. Eventually, Ford, not wanting to cause unnecessary arguments, would cave in and inevitably silently admit that Stan was right- he needed to eat more often. There was a whole planet of food safely and readily available; fearing poison or allergy was no longer a reason to go hungry. And yet, after so many years on restricted diets, his body no longer informed him of hunger. They ate as they trekked the sand, Nina carrying any wrappers for them in the bag on her arm, listening to the sounds of sea birds cackling overhead, waiting for a dropped bite to eat.

Once on the boat, it was a different story. Somehow, the wind seemed cooler from being on the water instead of on sand. The gentle rocking of the floor took some getting used to, and Ford insisted on everyone wearing lifesaver jackets. While Nina could see the importance, it also felt very bulky and difficult to move while in them. A slight panic at the thought of not being able to move easily was subsided when Ford told her that she would get used to it, once she lost her ‘land-legs’. Stan was already setting up the tackle box and stringing a rod for her. There were only the two on board, but he said that if Nina really enjoyed it, they would get a third so that they could all go on weekend boating trips together. Well, as long as Nina could stand them snoring, that is. Ford sniffed, indignant. Certainly _he_ didn’t snore! He would know about it, wouldn’t he? Stan disagreed; he’d been in the same room plenty of nights.

They playfully bickered as Stan showed her how to put bait on the hook, showing her where to aim for, and how to cast out a line. Then it was mostly a matter of just waiting and passing the time with terrible jokes. Ford decided to tell a story about islands made of angry, monstrously huge heads that lived underwater, and told about how normal people lived on top of them every day without even noticing it. “Oh, sure, the Navy and Department of Defense certainly knew about it- but could they tell a civilian population? Of course not! There would be panic!” he said, answering Nina’s teasing questions on how it was kept such a secret. “And who would be diving in Oregon? Not many.” She shook her head in response. Ford always had such imaginatively weird stories to tell, but somehow they did the opposite of suspend disbelief. They only made her even more certain that Stanley was the storyteller in the family; Ford didn’t quite have the gift.

Stan mentioned that if she wanted to hear tall tales, she should get his kid nephew on the phone sometime. Dipper could always ramble on about some conspiracy theory he read. She wanted to meet him and his sister, both now fifteen. Stan promised her that she would one day, since they always called for Hanukkah. Mabel insisted- they’d stay up for a few hours that week to play games and have colouring contests. She had grown out of so many stickers and was now onto scrapbooking with more expensive materials, and had even bought a sewing machine to teach herself to make new things. She absolutely loved that the internet had so many tutorial videos for her to watch. Stan was quite proud of her, especially for being hands-on like he was. Ford looked pleased as well; Dipper seemed to take after his scientific and inquisitive talents, while Mabel shared his love of sweaters regardless of the time of year.

Mabel apparently had a unique talent for rapid-knitting and had since wanted to know all about more complicated Scandinavian and Ukrainian patterns. It would give her a challenge and she could impress others with her gifts. Nina was excited. She had loved to make things, years ago, but somehow the will and desire drained out of her… and then her talent followed. An artistic ‘dead zone’ for over a decade. And yet, she still hung on to storage bins of different things she once loved, hoping to get that desire back. Perhaps Mabel would like to look and take some things home with her?

            “Ah, she lives in California. I do not believe she intends to visit us any time soon…” said Ford.

Stan jumped in: “Yeah, but we got the phone thing she can see her collection on! We could always mail her stuff. Been meaning to get them something more anyways.” Nina insisted that Mabel should take some of her things for free, should they be introduced. And, she added, no one has to know about the nature of me and Ford. She looked at Ford, nodding.

“It isn’t that I don’t want to be seen with you. But she’s fifteen, and knowing about our involvement sets a bad example for her. To them, we’re just friends, yes?” She wasn’t asking a question so much as demanding agreement. Ford had learned that tone already, but even if he hadn’t yet, he agreed wholeheartedly. There was no reason for the children to know about his relationships, even if they were already fifteen. He remembered how ‘adult’ he felt then, and how truly and completely unprepared for the world he really was…

Stan was also on board with the ‘just friends’ line. He’d seen enough girls his own age after high school running off with some cool, older guy with more to offer, and they’d come back in bruises, or with two kids, a divorce, and a restraining order. Stan saw less of that as he got older and wasn’t in a place to socialize anymore, and didn’t really have a social life at all after moving to Gravity Falls. Even though neither Ford nor Nina were bad people, he thought, that doesn’t mean the next ‘cool older guy’ was going to be safe for Mabel. She’d had enough problems with her “Crush of the Week” habits already! _‘For such an open person, she sure can turn a story and keep a secret…’_ he thought.

“I think she’ll like my yarn. Do you think so? It isn’t fancy. Well, most of it isn’t. A ball of this, a skein of that. Some odds and ends. But I have some matching skeins too, just not of good quality. Acrylic…” Nina prattled on, airing ideas on what Mabel might like or dislike.

Stan assured her that anything at all would be fine. “Mabel is a sweet girl, just happy that someone thought of her at all. Don’t worry about it!” he exclaimed.

Suddenly, she felt a pulling pressure on her pole and the reel handle began to spin. She caught it, trying to pull it back the other way. Stan jumped up and held the rod from over her shoulder, reeling something not too heavy but odd-feeling back in. As the line came back to the surface, he could see what she’d caught: a discarded fishing net wound over some trash, with a small grey and white fish caught in it. Stan called to Ford to get a garbage bag and expertly pulled the mess on deck. Within only seconds, Ford returned with a pail and a knife. Together, they freed the fish and threw it back. Too small, probably attracted to what looked like easy food and got stuck. Ford grumbled about humanity’s recklessness and lack of respect. Nina watched as they worked together, marveling at how very quickly they could navigate and be in unison on no notice at all. Together, they seemed unstoppable. Her skin prickled with a sense of awe and respect. She jumped slightly when Stan clapped his hand onto her shoulder, congratulating her on her first catch. Her hand clasped his tightly; she was grinning and breathless with excitement. Fishing itself was boring, she thought, but the prospect of a cleaner ocean and the sight of her friends being so _capable_ , was somehow thrilling.

They lingered for another two hours, fishing and showing Nina around the boat, talking about knots, rations, and wind directions. It didn’t make a whole lot of sense to her yet, but she thought if she was shown in action for longer she would get to know what to do and why it’s important. She hadn’t been on a boat in many years. Sometimes her smile would fall when they weren’t looking, thinking of what little she remembered of back then. What had she missed? But there was no going back. It would be better to focus on the two men in front of her and enjoy what was happening in the Now. Eventually, the three of them decided to head back as the sun sunk into the sea, smelling of salt and brine, each hungry and exhausted but at ease.


	15. Accidental Triggers Wound

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How quickly even intrusive thoughts can turn into the beginnings of a panic attack- then, when environmental elements coincide, Ford goes from a manageable reaction to a complete shutdown. How did such a pleasant morning go wrong so quickly?

_‘Waking with Ford is lovely,’_ she thought to herself in a sleepy haze. It was far too early in the morning to be awake, the sun barely rising as the sky turned a paler blue. His short frame allowed her to curl into his body pleasantly, or vice-versa throughout the night. Sometimes he would shudder, moan in the worst way, or cry out in his sleep. Nina had seen this a few times before in another client, a combat veteran who had waking nightmares. The way it sounded, someone named ‘Bill’ had ruined Ford’s life. She tried to console him without waking him, rubbing his back, telling him encouraging things in a low voice, using tones she often used to coax depressed clients into giving a laugh or making a decision. She thought for a moment about going downstairs to wake Stanley, but then thought the better of it. They typically slept in the same bed- this might be the first night in awhile that he’d gotten real rest. He needed rest. The circles under his eyes were not only from age.

As it was, Ford had settled down. She pressed herself against his back, slowly stroking his coarse body hair into smooth lines, careful not to do anything in his sleep that could make him feel claustrophobic. Even though he had slept in her bed more than a few times now, it would be completely at random when he felt like he couldn’t sleep without being fully dressed. She was grateful that this night wasn’t one of them, and that he at least got his sweater, jeans, and socks off this time. Laying one arm along his thigh, the other tucked under her pillow, she nuzzled his neck and kissed his shoulders. Ford murmured something inaudible, his deep voice rumbling and sotto with what sounded like pleasure. Nina stroked his leg and squeezed his hip, kissing him again, lingering in each spot to keep from tickling him. Blue eyes fluttered open as his breath hitched, his calloused hand reaching to grip hers as he turned to face her, a gentle smile across his lips.

He sat up and reached for his glasses. When the world came back into focus, a sleepy-eyed bronzed goddess of the morning sun was splayed out on the pillow next to him, tousled hair spilling over round bosom, interrupted by sheets in luminous teal. The cool air surrounded him, contrasting with the almost too-warm bed. Looking out the sheer curtains and finding only dawn, he yawned and decided to let the bed retake him. Nina bid him _Good Morning_ in the same soothing, low voice he was sure he’d heard in his dreams. “It is a very good morning,” he agreed as he propped himself up with an extra pillow before gathering her against his chest. “Sleep well?” he asked. She kissed his jaw, his neck, and trailed into his broad chest, catching his eye before stopping above the waistband. He was covered in scars that he kept hidden during the day, and she would show appreciation for his survival of every wound. He resisted the urge to squirm away or to cover himself more to escape the attention, both craving affection and enjoying the sensation of her touch, but also deeply embarrassed over his appearance.

Although she had seen every part of him before, it still gave him mixed feelings to be fawned over. He twitched when she nipped a small patch of smoother skin just below the ribs, delighted by a mischievous chuckle. After he had informed her of his issues regarding his body, his anxiety over physical intimacy, where his hard limits were, she beamed, excited to discover what he enjoyed once all else was ruled out. Ford had not expected that at all. There were, he supposed, some advantages of being his age. It made is easier to blame some issues on maturity and not personal preference. ‘Preferences’ could be negotiated; physical facts of life, not so much. And yet, whenever he began to get frustrated or angry about Nina’s endless array of questions, they never turned into attempts to change him; she seemed to honestly want to know his reasoning better, how he made decisions, what his history was. She called it an ‘algorithm’, saying that all people had one.

Even that idea made him anxious. The only person outside of Stanley who knew him so intimately was Bill. There were no words for the horror and psychological damage wreaked upon Ford’s mind, body, and soul after Bill had control. It had taken years to realize that his lexicon of words and phrases had been tampered with, his mind now associating ideas with the wrong words, hateful things pouring out of his mouth when trying to get answers or apologize for something. He could never let some weekend … person… have that kind of knowledge, that kind of control over him. No one would never be allowed to know him so well again if he could help it. Most people could be distracted by him explaining subjects he knew well as if it was a conversation about himself, but Nina was maddeningly difficult to distract. Her one-track mind could be infuriating at times. Slowly, they managed to broker a deal: Ford would tell her directly if he did not want to talk about something, provided that he did not abuse this deal with her. If a conflict arose, they would discuss it and possibly broker a ‘replacement deal’. Bill offered no alterations to his open-ended bargains. Bill only…

“Ford, are you alright? Do you want me to stop?” Nina asked, stopping anyways just in case. If Ford wasn’t obviously enjoying something… His body was tense, his breathing faster, muscles in his shoulders tightening. This wasn’t the ‘relaxed’ she was going for. She squeezed his hand, apologizing to him. He hadn’t even heard her, the noise in his head becoming too loud, but the expression on her face told him that she was waiting for a response of some sort.

Unsure of what to do and feeling very exposed, he slid out of the bed and rushed to get dressed. He needed the weight, the familiar tightness of his jeans and encompassment of his sweater. Something still felt ‘wrong’; then it occurred to him: Stan was right, he needed the heavier hoodie for the weight, or his goggles back. The tightness of the band and the thick UV-protective visor gave him a feeling of safety. Nina watched, horrified, for a moment before crawling off at the foot of the bed to give Ford plenty of room. In her closet was a weighted shawl she’d made. She and Stan had talked briefly about getting some of Ford’s clothes sewn differently to suit him, but nothing had been planned with Ford himself yet. Stan advised her not to even move any of his things without his express permission- even to clean the place. Folded leggings and skirts fell onto her head in her attempt to grab the one thing she wanted, but her fingers knew the fabric by touch. Wordlessly, she held it out at arm’s length to Ford, presenting it as he slipped on the first sock.

He stared at it, then at her, an unspoken question in the air. She pursed her lips, thinking it obvious: “See if you like putting it on. Your shoulders, or your head. I made it for either. Helps in the grocery store.” His eyes lingered on the smooth, thick fabric for a moment before letting his foot drop to the floor. He didn’t ask how she knew. Of course she knew. Her flat tone no longer meant dispassion to him; it meant that she was thinking intently and couldn’t also focus on having the “right” expression at the same time. She was worried about him. Worried, when Bill never was. Bill never gave anything without hidden expectations or torments. Nina just _gave_. What would be wrong with taking from her? He reached for the shawl and grabbed it from her hand as if she would rescind the offer any second. She didn’t like this at all- it reminded her of the day they met.

Ford’s wide eyes, cagey behaviour, and rapid breathing prompted Nina to call Stan immediately but Ford stopped her before she could dial his number. He didn’t want his brother to be interrupted every time he had a problem, and it would only worry Stan anyways. Nina chewed her lip with indecision. Ford’s hard stare and defensive stance made her relent. Logically, she knew that he would not hurt her, but she also didn’t want to test that theory with someone who would only feel like they were defending themselves. She didn’t want to let go of her phone, but she did think that could always talk to Stan later. She side-eyed him as she slowly put it down on the table, keeping her hands raised in front of her where he could see them, informing Ford of every motion he could expect in advance.

“What do _you_ want to do, Ford?” she finally asked, stepping to the side to allow him a clear path of exit. Ford was still trembling, but at least not shaking anymore. He shook his head but didn’t answer.

“Are you feeling like you need to get out of here?” Nina found that sometimes ‘question and answer’ could help identify options, but sometimes it overwhelmed the person too- which meant possibility of them lashing out. She was afraid of that option, but confident that she could take it. Ford needed help. Who else was around?

He sat on the couch, wordless, wiping his face with one hand and rocking in place slightly. His eyes never stayed in one spot, like anything around him might change if he didn’t keep looking about the room. Everything in the room felt like it was too crowded but simultaneously too open. _‘Oh, this is going from bad to worse,’_ she thought. _‘He cannot be alone… I need Stan’s help, but how to reach out to him? Without Ford figuring it out? Morse on the floor is too obvious…’_

Suddenly, Ford froze. He shrunk back into himself, pale and wild-eyed. _‘There’s the proof!’_ he panicked. Amongst the dozen or so mirrors, paintings of fey and wild creatures, esoteric tarot card-like drawings, and other works, was a black-and-white pen drawing of a cycloptic pyramid. How had he not noticed that before? Only perhaps five inches by three inches, it was buried amongst the collage. But the proof was there: all of this, this whole world, this entire experience- it was all just a mind-game of Bill’s. This reality had never existed. Years of defeating and escaping Bill had never existed. A wave of freezing cold nausea washed over him as the air left his lungs. _It wasn’t possible, this- it couldn’t be-_

Nina swiftly hit the Call button on her phone and put it down, hopeful that Stan would have his hearing aid in and could figure out that he hadn’t been pocket-dialed. Silently praying to any god that would hear, she hoped that Ford would talk to her so that Stan would hear and come upstairs. Something in this room had triggered him badly, made things worse than whatever the previous trigger was. She felt she only had minutes to figure out what it could be. She feared that a panic attack this severe in a man in his seventies could mean cardiac arrest. Following his line of sight, she tried to get his attention to eliminate the threat.

“Ford? Honey, you gotta talk to me. What are you seeing?” No response. He was sweating and shallowly hyperventilating. “Ford. Stanford. I am going to get Stanley,” she tried again loudly. She touched one of the larger photographs of the woods at night. Taking it off the wall, she asked if he hated that one. No response. She set it face-down on the floor. One by one, she pulled frames away, putting them on the ground until she reached the Illuminati piece given to her with the Lovers portrait. Ford’s breath hitched audibly; her head snapped around to look at him. “This one?” He nodded, whispering something. Nina could swear that he had mouthed ‘Bill’. “Okay, then.” In a way that ensured he could see it, she pulled open the back of the frame and yanked the paper away without grace or care. Ford jerked involuntarily at the sound of her tossing the frame aside, breaking the glass, but he wouldn’t let the picture out of his sight. It was as if the photo itself was a threat to him, she thought. _‘What the hell kind of trauma-?’_

Nina bent down near his feet, out of range of a kick but close enough to reach him. “Ford,” she said in her most even, commanding, but kind voice. “You want to tear this up? You can burn it if you want. Go ahead. Light the damn thing on fire if you like. It’s okay to do that.” He glanced between her face and the paper she held, now crumpled and damaged. And unmoving. The photo hadn’t moved. It hadn’t blinked or turned yellow. He was sure of it. It was just a photo, a drawing, like the cave drawing he had first encountered, like the printed photo on the back of every dollar… bill… was it intelligent? Was the photo intelligent, linked to Bill by way of symbolic magic? Had it watched him, heard everything they had said and done in here? Nina treated it like a piece of worthless paper. Was that all part of his plan? But she was telling him to burn it, to destroy it. He had destroyed everything of Bill’s in a fire before. Mabel and Dipper. Dipper insisted. Stan lit the bonfire. They threw everything in together. _‘She said to burn it.’_

Ford reached out with a shaking hand, feeling the texture of the heavyweight paper and sharp edges of the drawing. Nina backed away, but he barely noticed it as he smoothed out the drawing again, examining it for signs of life. She went quickly through her kitchen and brought back a small pot in one hand, a lighter in the other. Keeping them both where Ford could see them, she asked again what he wanted to do, warning him that the fire alarm might go off, but he could ignore it. “It’s up to you, love…” she offered him the lighter, meeting his eyes for a long moment. He could see the stress on her face, fear, fatigue. The same expression Stan wore when facing down Bill when they were trapped in the Fearamid. He had to end this.

Ford tore the drawing into pieces and lit them up. They smouldered and curled into nothing, the smoke rising into the air. No resistance. The only glowing gold came from the embers themselves. The front door cracked open with Stan letting himself in. He could see Ford wearing a weird green scarf, bent over something on the couch. He and Nina exchanged long, worried glances as he examined the room. Ford gave him a weak smile and snuffed out the last of the ashes now marring the metal of his friends’ cookware. How much time had passed? Minutes? Hours? What day was it? He couldn’t tell. Ford was suddenly so exhausted again, bone-weary, completely out of it. Stan immediately took to his side while Nina wordlessly took her pot back from Ford’s hands.

 _'That was it,’_ Ford thought. _‘That’s who she reminds me of sometimes. The Oracle.’_ Slowly, he turned towards Stan, who looked absolutely trepidatious towards him. Stan sighed and wiped his glasses on the tank top he wore before miserably uttering, “Bill, huh.” Ford was too tired to be angry with Nina for calling him. She had to have done it, and she did do the right thing. Either that, or Stan somehow knew through ‘Twin Sense’ to come upstairs, but it seemed to Ford that neither man had much sense at all. So it had to be Nina’s idea. Stan gripped his brother’s hand and put his feet up on Nina’s coffee table, slippers dragging outdoor dirt in and all. She sighed and focused on scrubbing the burn marks while the cool water ran over her hands. How did the world go from comfortably nuzzling into a gorgeous guy’s chest to… this? For once, she was grateful that the noise of the air conditioner, the noise of the water, and the noise of scrubbing with steel wool blocked out her ability to understand what was being said only a few feet away in her living room. They needed their privacy.

Ford pulled the shawl off his head as Nina put her pot in the dishrack, and he headed out the door before she could wipe her hands to dry. Stan lingered behind for a moment. She didn’t know what to say when she approached him, other than to thank him for coming. Stan looked haunted, his eyes watering. Whatever they had talked about wasn’t over for them. “You did the right thing, Nina. If anything happens, even if he tells you not to, you get me.” Nina nodded, also nearly in tears. Stress often left her this way, and to add it to the general sluggishness she had felt for the past month, and the pain radiating through her still-damaged shoulder… it was already just too much for one day, and not even 9AM yet. Stan gently hugged her, telling her they’d get it sorted out, to go get some rest. She nodded, hurriedly pulling him into the hall, asking him not to leave Ford alone at all. She would text him about what happened, he could read it downstairs, don’t leave Ford alone…

As soon as the front door was shut and locked, she slid down against it, shaking and trying not to cry. Confusion and fear pervaded her. The jarring sight of her living room filled with an empty space, things all over the floor, broken glass, and the scent of smoke… it didn’t occur to her at first to question why the smoke alarm hadn’t sounded, but it was a back-burner issue. An emptiness filled the space like a tangible thing in itself.

Then she heard it: muffled, quiet, but definitely real; the sounds of an argument, of heavy thudding pacing of heavy boots downstairs. It was somehow as awful as Ford’s… what, a panic attack? Could those be that bad and still be compared to the lightheadedness of dissociating? Stan could handle him, though. He must have spent years with Ford; they know everything about each other. Nina was just an outsider, not even properly dating the man. It was Stan’s business.

Which brought her back to _‘why the hell would a Freemason thing set him off like that?’_ But then, Stan had that fez with insignia similar to the kind of hats the Shriner’s wore… She decided that Stan was the kind of guy who if he wanted to tell her about it, he would. While Nina certainly had learned the ability to manipulate people to some degree, she didn’t enjoy it. Manipulation was taxing mentally and physically, and it was so much easier not to. Also, she was fairly certain that Stan was a longtime player of that game and would see through her in an instant. Manipulation of Ford was absolutely out of the question; even if it hadn’t been a matter of respecting him as much as she did, he was in no way able to cope with it the way ‘normal’ people could. Direct conversations worked so much better. Inhaling deeply, even her bones began to ache. Feeling fortunate that she did not own any animals and therefore didn’t worry about the glass, she crawled back into bed and slept clutching the pillow Ford slept on. Anything else could be taken care of later.


	16. Confrontation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Confrontations with loved ones are often brutal, with the power to destroy a good relationship or to rebuild a broken one. Seems like everyone could be better off, if they'd just learn how to just tell the truth.

Groggy and still upset from earlier, Nina sat up in bed. Something had woken her, but now she couldn’t place what. Then- there is was again! Someone knocking on the front door. _‘What time is it?’_ she thought, glancing at the bedside clock. Only halfway through the day, and she was still too tired to function. She stumbled across the apartment, only reaching her door before the lock turned and the person let themselves in. Stan and Ford both shuffled in, one behind the other. Suddenly, she felt very crowded, but couldn’t place why. She loved them both but the lack of protocol somehow left her feeling jilted- even though she herself had gifted them a key. She waved at them and immediately went for the broom and dustpan to clean the mess from that morning. Ford and Stan exchanged sidelong glances and made themselves comfortable, Stan not knowing what to do except sit down, Ford looking to help her clean up the mess he’d made.

Remorse swept through him as he stooped to pick up the pieces of the broken resin frame. He swore that he wasn’t going to let the past thirty years get to him. It was _over_ and _done with_ , and there was no reason to let his past consume one more moment of his future. He paused when Nina’s hand reached out for his, a gentle squeeze and a gentler smile. He didn’t deserve either attempt at comfort. He didn’t deserve the key to her home, or to sleep in her bed. The lines of his mouth narrowed further when she took the piece of frame from his hand, adding it to the dustpan. Ford stared at the now-clean floor as she threw out the debris, defeated.

The night before had been so pleasant: just the two of them in bed, reading the Asimov book together. She curled into his body without hesitation and listened to him read the short mysteries in his perfect cadence and diction. She struggled to read aloud, mixing up syllables and incorrectly pronouncing words. It turned out that she mostly taught herself to read and had trouble keeping some letters or similar-looking words straight. She could write and comprehend well enough, but translating written words into spoken was incredibly difficult. It was frustrating for Ford to have to wait for her to get through a paragraph at times but he kept his calm, identifying the same traits in his younger brother. Stan’s reluctance to do his homework made much more sense in hindsight. Ultimately, she cheered her success in reading an entire eight pages aloud and handed off the duty to Ford. Around the fourth or fifth story, she had fallen fast asleep in his arms.

The previous night felt so far away already.

“So, how are you both doing? Ford, you okay now?” Nina broke the silence the only way she knew how: polite small talk, open-ended question. Ford sighed, avoiding the question, finding a seat next to Stan. Stan reached out for Nina, pulling her in for a tight embrace. He still looked long-fatigued, the kind of tired seen at a widower’s funeral. “We’re okay, kid. Sorry you had to deal with this…”

“I am-“ Ford interrupted, “-thinking that ‘sorry’ doesn’t quite rectify the situation. You endured emotional distress and damaged property due to my actions. The only apology I can offer is that it will not happen again.”

For Ford to be unable to look directly at her was entirely out of the ordinary, but he clearly did not want to be coddled or comforted. Men were strange like that; the better of a man they seemed to be, the more they seemed to equate forgiveness with harsh punishment. Bad men were the opposite: they often demanded comfort and coddling, and dealt out harsh punishments to others. She didn’t think that Ford would be ready for, or would desire, a submissive dynamic. He would be perfect in that role, she thought, given his aversion to his own body and his other issues. Being given the freedom to surrender control in a safe environment, to be given ‘permission’ to do the things he needed to do under the guise of making someone else happy, could greatly benefit him. No degradation or sex acts necessary. But he would never go for that… at least, she was pretty sure he was not in the place he needed to be to be functional that way. Not yet.

“So, I’m not sure what to do here, guys. Yes, that was… to say this morning was awful is an understatement, like saying a tornado whips up a slight breeze…” Ford flinched. “But I don’t think you had control at all, Ford. And I think that scares you more than anything. If you’d had control, this wouldn’t have happened. The nature of PTSD is that you don’t and won’t always have control,” she stated in a tone that brooked no nonsense as she paced in front of them. She spun on a heel like a military sergeant to face Ford. “Ford, I don’t need to know what happened, exactly. I don’t need the background on what happened. I _do_ need to know what the possible triggers were, so that I can avoid them around you. The way you reacted to some artwork was… intense. And it’s a fairly common motif. I need to know what to expect, and we need to explore ways to bring you out of that state. _I cannot suggest therapy strongly enough.”_

Ford crossed his arms, defensive at the idea that he was so broken, so far gone, that he would need to see some pill-slinging shrink. He had ONE really bad break, there was no denying it, but it got handled and it wouldn’t be happening again. He wouldn’t _let_ it happen again. Nina sighed, relenting. Ford was stubborn, too stubborn sometimes. Stan adjusted his position on the too-soft cushion, cross-armed and glaring at the man next to him. He, too, knew that Ford could become intractable at times. Once Ford made a decision, that decision might as well be the law of Hashem himself! It grated at Stan, knowing that this very same flaw was one that led to the terrible fracture in their lives forty years ago, and in times of trouble he would return to the same damned habits.

And yet Ford seemed so sure of his argument that he would be fine, taking care of it on his own time, his own way. (And he had Stan to look after him.) He didn’t stop Ford when the man got up and left the apartment in a huff. This was just too much. As soon as the door unceremoniously shut, he broke down. Cool hands pulled him forward. He gave in and sobbed into her chest, hunched over, heavy against her. She leaned to accommodate his broad figure, stroking his hair and shoulders, trying to contain her own distress towards Ford’s behaviour.

“This isn’t fair!” he sobbed. “I can’t do this again! I worked so hard…” Nina raised her eyebrows, inhaling deeply to brace for what was to come. “Why is he doing this to me? To himself?” he shuddered dry, heaving sobs. “I- it’s too much… I can’t… I just… want… my brother… back…” Nina sniffed, beginning to cry herself. She had learned a very long time ago that she couldn’t fix anyone; they had to do it themselves. They had to want to be well, more than anything in their lives. She knew that Ford was damaged. She knew that from the very first day when he held a knife to her. She knew well that he was perfectly capable of hurting others. Somehow, she hadn’t expected him to hurt his own brother, who absolutely adored him.

“You’ve done your absolute best, Stan. You have been amazing, absolutely amazing. I can’t imagine having a brother, or anyone, like you around,” she reassured him. It was the truth. As far as Nina was concerned, she had cut off her family long ago. Between violence, emotional damage, neglect, and a plain lack of support for any decision she’d ever made that differed from theirs, she decided that she was alone no matter what. At least maybe she could be alone without the constant fear and anger. The idea of having anyone that supported her the way Stan seemed to support Ford was alien, something seen only in film and heard about in stories. It broke her heart that Ford would be so pigheaded that he wouldn’t just take care of himself, or at least see how his inactions affected people who cared about him. And yet, it wasn’t her place at all to interfere with a family affair…

Once Stan stopped crying, he wiped his face with both hands. She offered tissues and wet wipes to clean his face, gentle strokes on the delicate collagen-depleted skin, moving with the lines of his muscle. He sniffled off and on, trying to regain composure. He and Ford had been fighting all morning, and he still hadn’t gotten a straight story out of Ford over what happened. He had to tell Ford that he, too, had moments of terror- he just kept a straight face while it was happening, an old habit held over from the Columbia days of heists and smuggling over borders. You don’t break face in a prison for damn sure. You get angry, not sad. You live through that. He never wanted to go back to that life, to those habits, but Bill had left a scar that could never be healed. Stan tried to hide his lack of sleep as just some issue of getting old, but it just slipped out during their argument… and then Ford just shut down, like talking to a wall. “I’ll stop bothering you about it, then,” was the final word on the matter.

“Stan…? Do you want to talk to me?”

Stan looked around the room like an animal cornered. “You don’t have to, Stan,” she offered, switching her seat from the coffee table to the space next to him. “You came up here for a reason, though. Do you want to talk about it?”

 _‘She loves Ford’,_ he thought, _‘Even if he doesn’t deserve it…’_ He hated himself for that thought. Ford _did_ deserve love. Ford needed more love than anyone could give him. It took him too long to realize that was the real problem all along; he had been thrown out for not being Ford. Ford was only really wanted for what he could provide. Stop providing, stop being wanted. That wasn’t love. Surely, their parents loved them, in their own way, but it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t what they had needed back then. Shermie absolutely cared about them, without question, but he was distant now. They had the grand-niece and nephew, but they didn’t have adults to connect with. And there was little opportunity in the people of Gravity Falls to fulfill either of them anymore. And Nina wouldn’t believe anything he had to say. But it couldn’t hurt to stick to ‘facts’. They could change the story, close enough to truth… finally, he figured that he could just let her talk, and she would tell him anything she could remember and he could “provide” the rest. Worked every time in a deal. Nina would not disappoint. He was certain she also knew this game, so it wasn’t wrong to lead her like this, was it? As different as they could be, he saw glimpses of himself. It gave him a faint hope for all three of them.

 

* * *

 

 

Downstairs, Ford simmered in self-loathing and circular despair. Logically, Ford knew that she was right. This was too much, even for Stan. But he just couldn’t rely on a total stranger to hear him out, to tell him about Bill, to tell someone that he went through a thousand other dimensions in thirty years to battle with actual demons and go drinking with aliens like the cantina scene from Star Wars. Nina’s demand of professional help, even without medication, was utterly out of the question. Except that she didn’t know that, and it crushed him that she didn’t even believe in the most ordinary, run-of-the-mill ‘weird’ things like gnomes or sirens. Ghosts, she could conceive of the possibility, but that’s about as far as it went. He couldn’t even talk to her about his life, and his journals had been thrown into the bottomless pit, never seen again. Only Stanley could help him. And Stanley couldn’t help him.

He was back to square one- fixing things all on his own again. But that thinking was exactly what caused him to force Stan out of his life to begin with, that allowed him to carve out the piece of himself desperate for family, for adventure with his twin that he wanted so badly in the beginning of his career in Gravity Falls. Fiddleford was an amazing best friend, and he really did love Fiddleford deeply, but Fids wasn’t his brother, his twin. The three of them, together, would have been truly unstoppable. And while Fids couldn’t convince him that Bill was dangerous, Stan might have been able to. Stan was ‘ordinary’ dangerous, human, wily and impulsive. Quick with a gun or a pair of knuckledusters, quicker to make a buck. Sly and brusque, he would have recognized Bill’s manipulation a mile away. Ford felt sick as he recalled the approval he craved from Bill, the fulfillment found in their games… how much he wanted Bill’s friendship to replace what he could no longer recognize as the source of his loss.

And with that, he couldn’t pull away from Stan to preserve himself or his brother. He needed help. But he couldn’t get that help from an outsider, couldn’t get it from Nina, couldn’t get it from Stanley, leaving only himself… He opened the cabinet under the sink and fished around amongst the cleaning materials until his hand found what he was looking for: the canteen he’d carried for years and years, picked up in a dimension where the safest water was alcohol made from a plant similar to rice. Stronger than vodka, but similar in flavor. He missed it terribly despite the last of it having gone  long ago. Vodka itself was close enough, and he kept an ‘emergency supply’ for moments like this. Maybe if he was a bit drunk, he’d see a way out of this before he ruined everything again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies for a lack of editing on the past few chapters. I'm battling chronic illness and I'm afraid lately that if I stop at all, I might just... stop entirely. <3 I'm sorry! But please feel free to ask for improvements. I do love feedback, and it doesn't have to be all ~ *positivity*!! uwu ~ 
> 
> Thank you to everyone who's slogged through this so far. I promise, the Cinnamon Babkas will find peace one day.


	17. Where Do We Stand With Each Other?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Apologies are never easy, especially when wounds run deep and issues are not easily resolved.

Ford was deeply confused, and more than a little concerned. The frown etched into his jaw, tightening muscle that began to give him a headache. He was fairly certain that his brother was losing it. What else could explain the stash of candles and some new things around his brother’s apartment? Other than that he felt that he was experiencing some kind of life crisis? Ford was quite certain that his brother was a die-hard atheist, as was he, after seeing some of the Multiverse. And, well, Stan didn’t even have to go that far. Why Shabbat candles _now_? And why did Stan feel like he had to hide them? There were so many questions to be answered, and the more Ford pondered them, the more irrationally upset he became. It simply wasn’t like Stan to be… well, Ford was supposed to be the ‘sensitive’ one. And sure, Stan had plenty of feelings too (as any human should), but he was never the religious type.

Ford figured that this is what he got for looking about for something to write with. He should have just asked, or gone back to his own side of the wall. With a sigh, he recalled that he had told Stan that they needed to talk later. Today must be the day for all sorts of conversations. He still hadn’t figured out how to broach the topic of apparently losing his own mind with PTSD, much less how to address this new topic of his own brother suddenly… what, revisiting their childhood? _‘Ever since Nina brought over that breakfast basket, he’s been acting weird,’_ Ford griped to himself. Then it hit him: Nina was at the centre of all of this nonsense. She must be. _‘Oh, holy Moses. Because of course she is.’_

Abandoning his immediate project, he locked the front door and stalked down the hallway.

Although he hadn’t spoken much to Nina so much since the last incident, they had spent an evening in her garden, circling each other with conversation as two animals circle each other before an attack. She had been firm and strict about expectations of him, ultimately needing to know if she could count on him as a friend, and not just as ‘the guy downstairs’. That wounded him more than he had expected. She could be ruthless when she felt there was a discrepancy between behaviour and words. Slowly, Ford realized that she was kind that gathered information with an insecure expression on her face before revealing a royal flush, winning the table. She was more calculating than he had given her credit for, more guarded than she seemed. Damaged, just like him. Or not ‘just like him’. Hardened, but differently. He, in turn, remained terse and steadfast in his position of refusing outside assistance, insisting that medications were not necessary and that he could handle his life on his own, as he had for decades longer than she had been alive. Strangely, she had become completely, serenely calm when he’d told her that, coolly replying he was absolutely correct- so he had decades longer to figure out how to get himself under control. _“Now, where do we stand with each other?”_

He didn’t know what to say. He had never stayed anywhere long enough to learn how to apologize for something like this. He had ruined lives around him wherever he went. _“I’m sorry”_ could never be enough. It was a start, but it could never be enough. And then the guilt rose up again; had Weirdmageddon taught him nothing?

_Where do we stand with each other?_

Ford had no idea, but he remembered something Fiddleford had told him before he left: sometimes motivation is flighty, and emotions are confusing. You just have to make a decision. Is fixing a relationship, no matter what kind, worth it to you? Even if you don’t know what to do, you can just say what you want, and it is enough. It is a place to start. Together, you can find a way...

He felt trapped, like all rights to demands were held only by her. He would pay, and pay, and pay… and it would never be enough. Just like he could never give Stan back forty years of his life, and could never give Fiddleford his kids and wife back, and could never tell his mom that he was alive (and that so was Stan, and he was sorry…)

But something about seeing Nina on the ground, scruffy with heat and sweat and dirt, dry leaves in her hair and sadness behind the steel in her expression, made him relent. He really didn’t want to throw away whatever it was they had. What exactly that was, he wasn’t sure. They weren’t dating, not exclusive. They barely knew each other in some ways, but were intimately close in others. Nothing about their relationship could be assigned a definitive ‘box’ to describe what they were. But they were friends, he hoped. He just had to be the first one to crack. He had to abandon his habit of “Trust No One”. The only way to find out the truth of their relationship was to offer the first olive branch- to be the first to say what he really wanted. His mouth was dry but he swallowed hard regardless. He could lose nothing more than what he had already lost with her. Why not try to regain it? Why burn his bridges when he might just as easily repair them? Fiddleford and Stan both had commented on his strange method of defeatism after the kids went home. Both of them had recalled a much different man, years ago. Maybe he could be that man again. All he had to do was say it…

“I… want us… to be friends.”  
  
The words hung in the air in exactly the way a brick wouldn’t.

She stared at him, unblinking, for far too long for him to be comfortable. Just as he decided that he had been rejected, she got up and reached for his hands. Reluctantly, he offered them to her, unsure of what was to happen. Slowly, she held them, tracing lines and fine pale scars in contemplation, before telling him that she would also like to be friends. They could both do more to understand each other, to know each other.

That had been a few days ago. Today was panning out to be frustrating and disconcerting. With no outlet and no constructive way to express his frustrations, he rounded the stairs to approach the person he wanted to count on.

If he couldn’t talk to his brother yet, he would at least get some facts from her. Like “when did this start” and “has he been talking to you?” Stan wouldn’t be home for a few hours and was likely hustling at the bar. He glanced out into the parking lot. Nina’s car wasn’t there. He sighed deeply; he’d have to wait on that, too. Of course. The whole day was about being put on hold, for every little thing, it seemed. But in the interest of exploring… Silently, Ford berated himself for his desire to investigate (pry) through other people’s things, but curiosity overrode common sense. And he did have Nina’s housekey, a gift from her so that he would always have an escape if he wanted one. It wasn’t really invading her privacy if she gave him a housekey, right? By the power of his rationalization, it would be totally acceptable to find out more about the girl he liked without having to interview her.

_Where do we stand with each other?_  
  


* * *

 

 

Stumbling in through the doorway behind Stanley, Nina’s laughter could be heard wafting through the hallway, the rustling of paper bags in their wake. Stan cracked a joke about a blonde trying to buy a television, when it was a microwave all along.             Ford clambered down to greet them both, curious as to where they were and what all this new stuff was. Stan unpacked, with Nina patiently smoothing out tissue paper and properly folding each bag tossed carelessly aside and offering her seat to Ford. She seemed so happy to see him. Ford wasn’t sure he returned the sentiment after seeing some of the things in her possession, but that was his own problem- he was the one who went snooping around. He gave her a smile anyways, and laughed at her punchline: “Well, where else could I find parking in New York for only $1000 a month? And find my Lamborghini safe when I got back?” It was a joke almost as old as she was.

Any opening was as good as the next, he figured. “So! Stan- get any more candles while you were out?” Stan’s head snapped up, taken off-guard by the question. “Well, I- uh… y’know, the room could be nicer with some candlelight…” Nina looked between the two brothers and their signs of tension before making an excuse to leave. Ford put his hands up like a surrender, lowering his voice. “I’m sorry. I did not mean to ask that way. Only- Stan, why didn’t you tell me you wanted to go back to Shabbat rituals?” Stan and Nina looked at each other for a moment. Nina started, “Well, Ford, we’d been chatting-“ Ford cut her off “No. I want to hear from my brother first, please.” 

Stan looked like a teenager in serious trouble, eyes sad and shoulders defensive. “It isn’t like that, Ford. I mean, I ain’t thinking of joining a- a congregation or nothin’. I just- I don’t know.” He started pacing nervously around the small living room, Ford looking on like some kind of authority. “I guess since the other day, I been thinking about how- the good things about our family... About how we were raised. Our parents weren’t perfect, of course they weren’t. Look what happened to us! But I really liked the whole… being together thing. Like it was special. Even though it was almost every single week, it was special.” Stan stopped and turned to face his twin. “I just wanted that back. I don’t know, I guess that first week being here, the first few days and being… just welcome somewhere… like that, too. It brought something back, and I missed it. Don’t you? Don’t you miss her?”

Then Ford understood. He also missed their mother, even though she hadn’t been so kind to him as she had to his brothers. But she still loved him, he thought, and did her best with them. Stan was more like her despite looking more like Pa. Ford looked more like their mother and uncle than his own father, but certainly he acted like Filbrick sometimes. The same harsh, demanding, exacting nature would surface from time to time. It made him an excellent scientist, driven to get results that were checked and double-checked for error, but… also, it made him overbearing at times. And once again, before meaning to, he’d overstepped his boundaries and run all over someone he cared about to get what he wanted, just like he had with Fiddleford. Guilt struck him again, clenching in his chest.

“I thought I could never talk to you about that,” Ford said quietly, dropping his shoulders. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Nina sitting nearly perfectly still, statuesque, silent and staring at the wall. He’d forgotten all about her. Something about her energy just felt like she could disappear, vanish if she wanted to. Even in plain sight. Unnerving. He called out to her and asked if she wanted to go. She gazed at Stan warily, unsure of what to do. Was she in trouble? Was he?

Stan understood that look, having seen it thousands of times. He leaned into her, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and reassuring her that no one was angry at her. He loved having her with him out and about. Secretly, he thought that she must not pay attention much since he’d been able to shoplift some very nice trinkets for Mabel and himself, but then was surprised when those doe-eyes met his before she leaned in to his hearing aid side and asked, “Stan, can you keep a secret?”

Ford didn’t miss a beat, cocking his head to one side. What secret? Stan seemed amused at the idea of being let in on something others didn’t know. Information had a price, after all. “Sure, sweetie. What is it?” He addressed her like a young girl sometimes, not that she noticed- or she just didn’t hold it against him.

She bounced on her feet for a moment before responding. “Well, I saw you looking at this thing in the shop… and…” Nina slid her skirt up, hiked to halfway up the thigh. Not so risqué in this day and age, but for her, it was quite revealing. She had a sock cut like a garter belt around her thigh, something lumpy in it that she fiddled out into her hand. “Here you go.” Stan was amazed. Clever girl! So, she had quick fingers, too! “Thank you for teaching me how to fish.” He turned the small boat figure, only two inches long and made of sterling silver, over in his hands. A small thing to remember this trip by. Actually, he had only looked at it as a possible Dipper gift, but now it was special to him. He could not part with it.

“Ugh, used too much cologne! Always makes my eyes water. Thanks, Nina. Why don’t you come over this weekend? One of us will call ahead for you.” Stan made excuses for the tears on his face, Nina gently wiping one beneath his glasses. Even Ford softened more, seeing how careful she was with him. Nina adjusted her clothing again, picked up her bag, and gave Ford a nod before leaving. She even made sure to lock the door before shutting it softly behind her.

Ford and Stan both watched the door for a moment and then looked long at each other. It was Stan who went first: “We’ve been keeping things from each other again, haven’t we.” Ford looked away, saddened, but certain of what he needed to do. With arms folded behind his back, he steeled his resolve. He needed to tell Stan what he never wanted to say and accept the consequences.

“I… I need help, Stanley.”

The formal use of his name terrified Stan. Something really _was_ deeply wrong if Ford admitted that he wanted help. Although their relationship had mended quite well, it was another thing to change a lifelong habit of asking for assistance in more than a ‘lab assistant’ kind of way.

Ford broke and told him all about the times that he felt like things didn’t really exist, the nightmares about coming home not being real, and even described the terror and loss of reality when he first met Nina, who he mistook for some kind of other-dimensional beast, how afraid he was, how he almost let himself kill her out of fear. That’s why he told her they were veterans. Stan’s first instinct was to joke about it- “Her? Well, she’s a sort of man-eat…” but then thought the better of it. He had never been good at consoling people. He hated himself every time he got sad over something instead of angry. Anger meant strength, tears meant weakness; men are not allowed to be weak. _Weak_ is the worst thing in the world to be. Ford was so much stronger than he was, and if Ford is breaking…

Ford sniffled and wiped his face before leaning his chin on his hands. His eyes were reddened. It was rare that Stan had ever seen him look this bad- maybe not since their fight before the portal opened the first time, or since their fight only some days before. He was right, he hadn’t been sleeping at all. Stan would sometimes take naps in the daytime or evening because Ford would kick or toss in his sleep, muttering or shouting. Sometimes Stan could wake him up, but other times it wasn’t so bad, so Stan would just get himself a drink and read until Ford settled back down. He was secretly wanting Ford to just open up to him. He had asked plenty of times if anything was wrong… They’re both grown men now, right? So why can’t they just have a conversation to make things better? But Stan knew that he was just as guilty of keeping quiet and not discussing anything unpleasant or ‘too emotional’. He also had bad dreams, mostly about Bill, losing the kids, losing Ford, something going wrong with the Portal, dying before he could get his brother back...

“What about you, Stan? Why the candles? You going to find a new rabbi soon? Do you miss growing up that much?”

Stan couldn’t look at him directly, half-ashamed at being found out. He knew that it was inevitable, since they shared space, but it was just… he couldn’t express it. Too concerned about seeming like a doddering old man trying to get into Heaven, or that he was being whiny and weak. He loved his heritage, he loved the religion of his parents. He really loved the weekend rituals when he felt like the world was a place apart (with the exception of homework- his parents were not so devout). Food was made before sundown after he got home from school so the house always smelled good. Because Pa was so cheap, they always ate cheap foods, which at the time were whatever was in season. And you know what? They often tasted the best, especially with how Ma cooked. _‘Young people have lost appreciation for that sort of thing,’_ he thought to himself, before reminding himself that even he hadn’t appreciated it at the time. It was ‘just food’ back then. Being given challah, on that morning, on that day, with all the small fixings and even fruit he never even liked, brought back to him a life he felt he’d lived several incarnations ago. How to say all of that to Ford?

“I ain’t looking to be one of those New York crazies with the black cloaks and all that. I just miss- do you remember how happy Ma was when she made food on Fridays? We’d get home and there was just a whole kitchen full? And she asked us to help and we’d just taste everything?”

Ford nodded. “Yes, she would let us off homework for the night sometimes. At least, when she remembered to do Shabbat. Or had the energy. Looking back, I think she was a lot more tired than she let on. You and me kept her hands full, and then there was Shermie…” He crumpled into himself. “I never realized how much work she really did. Grifting people is much harder than she made it look. It’s exhausting to lie to people all day, and keep the lies straight.”

Stan snorted in agreement. “Don’t I know it! There’s a rhythm to it and all, but it ain’t no cake walk.” Ford’s short laugh was sharp in the small apartment space. “Yeah, I guess you’d know, right, _Stanford_?” he replied. Stan flinched, despite trying not to take it too personally. Ford saw it and corrected himself. “I mean… I know why you did it. I’m just saying that you carried it off with real effort. Cut your hands open and everything. Mom would have been proud if she’d known.” The older brother laid a reassuring hand on Stan’s hunched shoulders before pulling him in for a tight hug. Stan couldn’t hold back anymore, burying his face in Ford’s chest.

Once he regained control over himself, both men avoided making anything of it. Finally, Stan started to realise that Ford wasn’t the Tough Fierce Hero, Too Strong To Feel that he always thought Ford to be. Ford just kept it all to himself, internalized everything, blamed himself. It made sense: when Stan showed weakness, how did family treat him? Worthless. Stan had always felt worthless, and only had some kind of value when he wasn’t _Stan_. People loved him when he was Ford, though. Except now Ford, who he trusted above everyone, told him that _he_ was the valuable one and that Ford was the fucked up worthless one. Had his super-cool, attractive, brilliant brother really felt like that for all these years? Thinking he couldn’t ask for help because it was weakness, that it made him worthless? No wonder his older brother thought he had to be alone, that he was angry about re-opening the Portal at the risk of killing others. He didn’t think he was worth saving.

Despite having the past few years together, nearly every day in each other’s company, he felt that he was always learning something new about themselves.

The quiet was almost tangible, like silence during prayer at a funeral. Stan wished the kids were with them, in a way. Mabel and Dipper could never be quiet, could never let them be sad or angry for more than a few minutes. It also meant that they had to lie to each other to keep “grown-up talk” away from the kids. Some things were meant for just the adults in the room, and the twins could never be trusted not to eavesdrop. But he loved Mabel’s enthusiasm and simplistic approach to problems, and while he didn’t always understand Dipper’s overthinking, Ford would have appreciated the concern for their involvement.

“So, you want to do a Shabbat thing? When?”

“Huh?”

“Well, you bought the candles. Do we have wine and the makings for bread? Do you want a special silver challah knife like Ma? Or just break it with our hands, like Pa?”

Stan eyed him carefully. “You mean it? You’ll… do this with me? Like when we were kids?”

Ford nodded solemnly. “Yes. We missed a lot of years. I’m not really a ‘god’ kind of person, but… it is a beautiful ritual. It would be nice. I know we’re on kind of permanent vacation, but… uh, some sources I’ve read say that establishing regular rituals can help mark time, and keep a person grounded if they experience a dissociative event. It might be helpful to me.”

Stan considered this carefully. “Do you want to invite her?” he asked in a neutral tone. On one hand, he wanted something for just them, since they knew or could look up the prayers and intricacies of ritual to perform. If they wanted to go that far. Some prayers to show appreciation might be nice. On the other… a Shabbat table is to be set like someone important was visiting. Someone important, a special kind of communion, a world away from the world where all they would talk about was what a joy it is to be together. While typically games or something would be played, he and Ford never really agreed on any, so they could watch movies together instead. Maybe inviting one more, someone that they both enjoyed, could be alright. Sometimes. Sometimes, he wanted it to be just the two of them.

Ford didn’t have to question who he meant. He mulled it over and shrugged. “She can bake for us, if you like. We can ask her for a few loaves, even if we don’t ask her to join us. She would understand and not judge us if you wanted to keep it special.” 

Nodding, Stan leaned back and put his feet up. “I actually like her. She’s weird, but kind. I just don’t think she’d know any of the prayers or what to do. You think she’d like this sort of thing? You said she ain’t Jewish, right? I mean, she’s a goy, and goys usually think we’re just…” he didn’t know how to finish that sentence. He’d gotten a lot of bad reactions before for just who he was born to. He’d heard every ‘big nose’ joke in the world, every ‘no wonder you’re greedy’ jab by now. How many times did he feel disgusted with himself, knowing that for him, money meant freedom from fear, from starvation? Money meant comfort, and he was never wanted unless he could make it like Ford could. If he wasn’t Jewish, that would be seen as ‘common sense’. But he was, and wanting security was held so violently against him… so he just tried not to let on about that. He had enough problems.

“Anyways. I think I’m kinda done being upset with you over her. I still think she’s too young for you, but she’s also been good for you. I don’t know if you’ve noticed that,” Stan went on. Ford had suspected that the two had conspired together, after the stern warnings he had gotten from Stan first and then the relent after he had slept in her bed. Ford cringed, rubbing his hands together, looking for the right thing to say or do. He’d already been told by both not to get too attached. He suspected that he might be _very_ attached. But like the other two, he knew how to hold his cards…

“Ford. You’re my brother. I’ve never been good with girls, but… I told her that I thought this was pretty serious to you, and she needed to think about that. I know you can handle it. You fought a demon for years, survived him living in your head, in _you_. I want you to be happy. And you seem happy with her. I don’t get it, but I can tell you like her, and she cares about you, too. She looks out for us both.” He groaned. “I didn’t need a new relative! What are we getting her for Christmas?”

Ford blinked, not having considered this. Mabel insisted on celebrating every holiday, even if it was just Pancake Day, but she never held them to celebrating them unless it was a big deal. Nina was… did she have a religion? Ford couldn’t recall if she had ever mentioned celebrating holidays with anyone. Only that her family were Church-goers, as many people in the Southern states were. What could he possibly get her? But to hear Stan say- did he say ‘a new relative’? That meant Nina was considered _family_ already! He stumbled, “Ah, actually, I don’t know… we could ask?”

Stan wheeze-laughed, slapping his knee. “You don’t know?! Heh, better start memorizing the dates of your first outings with her, Sixer. Finally! I get to make fun of you for dating! I wanted to do this decades ago!” Ford’s face turned red to match his nose before he started laughing, too.


	18. Useless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nina is wiped out from the first day back at a "real job". Ford surprises her by coming to comfort her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: passive suicidal ideation linked with depression

_‘Ugh, fuck’s sake. I thought this day would never end.’_

Nina pulled into the parking lot, picking the spot next to the twin’s truck. She wanted to slump over the steering wheel after shutting off the engine, but as tempting as it was, she knew she had to drag herself upstairs. As she approached the first step, she grabbed the rail and stared upwards into infinity, each stair stretching out a mile high. Steeling her resolve, she counted down the number of stairs to her door, fourteen in all (an odd number for stairs) and shoved her door open. Nina barely got her shoes kicked off when she dropped her bag on the floor, wincing at the loud _crack_ her phone made inside of it when it hit the tile. She pulled the blanket off the couch and laid down on the cool tiles, absorbing the chill.

Outside, it was a warm day with the promise of a cooler night, dropping into the 60s. The weather never stayed stable for long. Despite the heat and the open curtain, the apartment was already beginning to dim to darkness due to the gathering rainclouds outside. Nina didn’t mind rain, unless it lasted longer than a week. Today, it suited her mood. The lack of income from phone work left her short on cash, and who would support her except herself? No one. She abhorred the idea of living with anyone else. At least if she broke something, didn’t pay something, or left something out for too long, it was her own fault and no one else’s. While logically, she knew that it was ridiculous to hold others to a higher standard than herself that way, she also knew that she wasn’t going to get over that attitude. Instead of taking it out on others, she kept it to herself. That, and her demands for living environment were extremely specific and any deviation caused extreme distress. Others have called her ‘unreasonable’ at the best of times.

Retail was supposed to be easy. She didn’t realise that getting the current job meant direct sales, too. Running the register was much more difficult when people changed the amount of change handed to her after the original amount had been rung, and while she was instructed to watch for that as a sign of a scam, she also had no way to refuse without issues from the management. Which one did they want? To only accept the amount originally given for the register, no exceptions? Or to accept that someone changed their mind about giving fifty-seven cents to get a dollar back as opposed to taking odd change, and risk them doing this four or five times? There were no clear delineated lines. Then she found out that everyone had a sales total at the end of the day. It was her job to push higher sales, and each employee was compared for top sales at the end of the day. Did this net her anything extra? No, but only top performers in the first thirty days would still have a job.

Then, she was reprimanded for not noticing that one customer wore a designer watch worth three months of her rent, and how much she should have sold him in addition to the thing he had been looking for. But he had only asked for a specific thing? The boss became angry and accused her of playing stupid. Except that Nina had no ability to recognize designer watches, or designer anything. She bought almost all of her clothes from garage sales and thrift stores, genuinely seeing no difference in functionality between brands. The only tangible quality was that some brands cost more or had fancier custom buttons. The fascination with brand loyalty was alien. Was part of the job to study what designer items look like? But she was only there to sell chocolate.

At least the other underlings appreciated her eye for detail in cleaning and stock quantity and rotation. It was the one area she excelled at.

The one area the boss said that anyone could do, and she wasn’t there to clean. Nina pointed out that actually, in food service jobs, it _was_ her job to clean.

She was sent home early.

The whole experience just drained her. It wasn’t even that hard of a job! How difficult could it possibly be? Generic task list: ensure all surfaces are clean, including the refrigerator and candy cases. Ensure stations are all well-stocked with supplies like straws, tissue paper, bags, and napkins. Learn how to make four different drinks. Learn what is in fifty-something odd chocolates. Employees got a half-off discount, which she planned on slowly using to find out what most flavours tasted like to memorize them. Stock candies and chocolate using first-in, first-out rotation. Learn to run the register and what combo deals existed. Remember to ‘sell’ membership rewards cards. Clean depending on which shift was worked: at the beginning for openers, at the end for closers. On top of that, remember to talk to customers. Make eye contact. No, not that much eye contact. Remember to smile. You don’t have to smile while talking. But don’t be ‘unfriendly’. Don’t act like a cardboard cutout of a person- have some movement to show excitement. Don’t tap your foot so much, it looks demanding and impatient- _“you’re so rude!”_

None of these things mattered on the phone. In person, it was so confusing, and people got upset or frustrated with her for things she didn’t understand. This is exactly why she dropped out of jobs or ended up fired to begin with. Why she went to sex work from the get-go. It was one of few jobs she could successfully maintain and feel good about. _‘Well, as good as anyone could feel about a job,’_ she supposed. Morose, she battled with herself silently on the floor, a war between hating herself for being so stupid and weird, and hating others for not just telling her what was wrong, or for getting angry at things that didn’t hurt anyone and that didn’t matter. In circles she went with herself, every terrible consequence of every tiny action cropping up again like fresh wounds.

As always during these low points, she contemplated just stopping. No worries about work, or bills. They can just go unpaid. It would be a month or two before her landlord could kick her out. No need to eat, no need for furniture. No need for Nina’s continued existence. It wasn’t a sad idea. Rather, it was a ‘blank’ one, the prospect of dying off unemotional and inevitable. It wasn’t that she wanted to kill herself, per se. It’s just that if she happened to never wake up again, that isn’t the worst thing to ever happen to her. Far from it.

Somewhere under the softly glittering blues of the blanket, her stomach growled. Working around sweets all day, and she still didn’t have any clue when she was actually hungry. Low-grade pain was a fact of life and therefore was ignored. Hunger became irrelevant long ago, having spent years sent to school or to bed without eating due to her pickiness and ungratefulness for her parent’s cooking. But this time, it actually hurt. She knew the nausea would set in if she didn’t eat soon. Nina was actually surprised that she wasn’t roiling with acid in her throat already from the stress alone. Maybe eating would be a good idea. But she had no energy to move. Nina could spend an hour summoning energy to tell herself to just get up, pull something pre-made out of the fridge, put into mouth, chew, swallow… and not get a single inch closer to the kitchen. So near, so far away.

That last idea broke her. Quietly in tears, as if there were someone there to hear, she sobbed into her arm. _‘Useless. I’m so fucking useless. Can’t keep a shitty minimum wage job, can’t talk to people right, can’t do basic shit, can’t pay bills like a fucking adult, can’t even walk ten fucking feet to feed myself… why am I still here?’_

Someone knocked at the door. She barely parsed the sound before ignoring it. _‘Too much noise, too far away,’_ she thought. Then she heard the key turning in the stiff lock, alerting her that it was one of the twins (or both) and wiped her face, struggling to get up before they see her in this state. The sound of cloth swishing and heavy boots told her it was Ford before she looked up over the coffee table. She was too crushed to care about him wearing his shoes inside past the front door _again_ , and reminded herself that he needed them on the way she needed a regulated environment. Reddened eyes and cheeks fooled no one when he bent down to peel away the crocheted blanket from her hair, smoothing out flyaways and pulling the elastic from the too-tight bun. She laid at his feet and waited for him to say something, but instead, he grabbed a pillow from the couch and laid on the floor with her, pulling her close to hear his steady heartbeat through his shirt, silently wrapping an arm around his waist under his long, worn-out coat. How had he known? Some sixth sense to go with his six fingers? Or was it just timing?

She began to cry again when he kissed her hair, softly, gently, heartbreakingly gently. Once started, she couldn’t stop. Everything was too much. How could he give so much attention to someone utterly incompetent, so unworthy? He was clearly well-educated, a proper, published scientist. She couldn’t even keep a job at the mall, and here he was, just… without question… Ford ran his fingers through her hair, over her shoulders, stroking her back, not a word to say. He had been through too many days of despair. This was nothing new and would soon pass. How much he had wanted someone, anyone, to do for him what he tried to give Nina. And how vulnerable she was, in so many ways. The gulping sobs against his chest meant that she would need more air soon, would be worn out, would calm down. Just give it time…

When she finally quieted down again, he pulled away, making sure not to totally break bodily contact. Nina rolled into the floor, trying to hide again. She was all too aware that she was an ugly crier. Girls who cried on television were always sad and model-beautiful. Nina was fairly certain that she looked like what would happen if ‘Frosty the Snowman’ was about sunburned pretzel dough: tan, pink, and misshapenly puffy all over. She hated people looking at her, and hated being seen crying much more. Nina was pretty sure the only reason people in the chat lines liked her was either they had only seen her face, or they were into chubby chicks. Not exactly what most people want in a real person; more like people’s secret fetish until they find out that thickness partially comes from having a lot of dense muscle. Then she was “that weird gross manly chick”. And yet, Ford seemed to be okay with her appearance. And so did Peter. Peter would tell her if she wasn’t attractive. She didn’t see him often, but it was only because he moved so much for work…

“Do you want to talk about it?” asked Ford, his voice gentle and low.

Nina shook her head. There was just too much to say. And somehow, nothing at all. It was all just boring, self-pitying crap he shouldn’t have to deal with. He had bigger problems, she was sure of it. Ford eyed her carefully. Like him, she could clam up and internalize anything if she’d set her mind on it. So this is what it was like from the outside for Stan trying to deal with Ford when they were teens. After making a mental note to be less intractable, he refocused on the issue in front of him. “Are you sure? You do not have to. I’ve been informed that it helps, though.”

Nina laughed dryly, still sniffling. She rolled over to grab tissues from the coffee table, cleaning up her face before crumbling back to the floor. “I really don’t know what to say,” she replied. A sort-of truth. Where to begin? What to say? _Oh, hey, supergenius not-boyfriend, I hate my low-life job and can’t seem to do any part of it right. As usual._

Ford eyed her, eyebrow raised.

“Why are you here?”

“You mean, on the floor with you? You were crying.”

“No, I mean, here. Well, also on the floor with me. But in my apartment?”

Ford made a low sound like he intended to evade her questions. Which, he did. “Ah, would you prefer the bed? Because I think my back would. I have a new book you might enjoy.”

Warily, Nina studied her friend. “So… you came here… to read to me? Or lend me a book?” He was trying not to answer. To push this one and risk scaring him off, or to leave off and let herself be redirected? Ford was such a hard man to figure out. “Ford, for real, why come up here?” Push, then. Not that he was an unwelcome presence, but things had been a little rocky as of late.

“I was in the garden, getting herbs for dinner. I saw the way you were trudging up to the building. You looked sick.” She hadn’t noticed him? But then, she wasn’t paying attention to anything, it seemed. He took a moment to take the food inside, rinsing it in case Stan decided to go and cook without realizing that the veg needed a wash. Then he had grabbed his current reading material from the counter, shoved the paperback in his pocket, and grabbed their key. Instinct rarely proved wrong, and Nina needed someone there.

“I’m not sick. I’m fine,” she retorted, her voice flat again. She sat up, her section of the blanket now draped over her lap. “Really, it’s just been a long day.”

Ford noted the uniform and surmised that she must have had a bad experience at a new job. That was probably why she didn’t want to talk. People like her were harassed all the time. Maybe she would like a warm shower to take the day off, her back massaged as she had done for him on a few occasions? He reached for her, pulling away the blanket to sling it over his shoulder, and picked her up off of the ground. Surprisingly, she let him carry her to the bedroom. Nina was always surprised at his strength, especially when it came to picking her up. While a hundred and forty pounds was pushing his capacity at his age, the living room to her bedroom was a very short distance to cross, and it was somehow thrilling to impress someone like her.

Like a doll, she sat without moving while Ford took off his jacket and boots at her bedside. Ford leaned over and asked her about showering off. She shrugged. He sat next to her, not taking a shrug for a ‘yes’. Instead, he fetched his book, a short novel by Robert Holdstock. “You like the woods, fairy tales, things like that, right?” he said. She glanced over and nodded. “ _Mythago Wood_ has all of those. You might like it. It’s a winding tale, maybe a little hard to get into, but once you’re hooked…” If nothing else, Nina loved the depth of Ford’s scratchy, rumbling voice. At the moment, words were tumbling into sounds unrelated to meaning, but if Ford was the one making those sounds… She repressed the urge to cry again. _Shower._ He had asked about a shower? Was it too late to agree to that? Except that she didn’t know if she wanted to stand or sink into the water. Maybe she could just lean into Ford for awhile…

Wandering thoughts led briefly into how nice it would feel for him to want her, the pleasure of lazy, attention-seeking sex and how it felt to touch every curve and scar of him, what it would be like to gain a gasp of pleasure from his throat, the flash of his teeth… But she also appreciated how pleasantly non-sexual Ford was. It was a relief to never get the impression that he was setting her up. The lack of advances gave her an unexpected sense of relaxation. There was no need to put on the air of performance, of acting a part, because there was never any expectation or demand from him. While it would be nice if something else would come from gentle kisses, intense massages, intimate moments and shushed laughter, it was also the one thing she could count on from the only man she could anticipate it from: a total lack of demand for sex. None of the usual trying to cajole her into resolving a bad day by fucking, no pushing for uncomfortable positions, no snide remarks about weight limitations of a guy’s jaw, no crude remarks about … well, anything. Nothing said at all about small scars or cellulite or anything.

The groans and red-faced grins she got from him while she worked on his hands or his back now and then were enough, really. There were plenty of other people to focus on, if she reached out and asked. Ford was different, she was sure of it, but she couldn’t pinpoint whether it was that he wasn’t attracted to her specifically, or if he didn’t prefer anyone at all. That idea was in the category of “things not to mention until he brings them up on his own,” in case it was a sore spot for him.

At some point during this, she had crawled halfway into Ford’s lap and held onto him. Everything was just Too Much again. She had worked so hard not to let things slide out of control the last time, and she had to go back to work the next morning. She couldn’t afford for everything in her life to spin into chaos. But how to explain that to him? And Ford had his own problems, which were far bigger than hers. It wasn’t fair to be his burden when he had so much going on to begin with. As she struggled with ideas of what to do, what not to say, Ford began to read the introduction to _Mythago Wood_. Soon, Nina was lulled by his cadence, and the weight of his arm resting over her back.


	19. Introductions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ford meets the mysterious Peter and perhaps finds a new acquaintance.

Nina drove home as quickly as she could safely manage. How exciting that Peter was back in town! And so soon- he was usually gone for months, sometimes years! The text message popped up halfway through her shift. It was so tempting to not quit on the second day, which wasn’t much better than the first, except that the manager from the day before was absent leaving the employees to their own devices. It seemed to make things a little easier, even though her sales weren’t the highest. But with Peter unexpectedly back in the state, she really couldn’t wait to see him. Even though it had only been perhaps a month, he was the only real friend she’d ever had, and who knows when she would see him next.

Peter was a lovely man, Nina thought; educated, talented, worldly, patient, decisive. In many ways, Ford reminded her of him. Peter spoke four languages: English, German, French, and was learning Dutch. With his talent in illustration and translation, he had plenty of work all over the place, and could pretty much afford to live wherever he liked. While Nina disapproved of his donations to Salvation Army, Peter seemed to not understand the context of their harm, believing that any help to people is a help when otherwise, it might not come. She chalked it up to his being from Germany, unaware and unimpressed with the politics of American life. He could always go back home, after all. Nina considered herself lucky to own some of his original drawings, small works of mythological figures and cryptids in the Black Forest or pseudo-Scandinavia. They shared a deep love of Grimm’s tales and old poetry, and could talk about literature and language all night over Kahlua or screwdrivers. Like Ford, Peter was a minimalist, always seemingly ready to pack up and move onto the next place. Neither seemed to truly approve of her work, but both left it alone so long as she was safe while working. It was an attitude she could accept, considering that most would outright disown her for being a sex worker. At least they never said anything unkind, and Peter was even a little interested in some of the more unusual customers- he had a sense of _shadenfreude_ towards them.

Was it wrong to keep a journal without names, filled with the recollections of customers to tell him about? It wasn’t like they could be identified… and Peter would never, anyways…

The voices coming from the side of the building piqued her interest. Peter hadn’t given her a time of arrival, but that was definitely Ford’s laugh booming over the fence. It felt good to hear him so happy. She pulled her bag out of the car and went to join him _. ‘Can’t stay long, though. Bread upstairs needs to go in the oven so they have it by sundown. Thank god for the morning shift.’_

Seated on the folding chairs and in the grass were Ford and Peter, apparently waiting for her to come home. Ford was grinning, hand gestures mimicking a battle and his excitement, Peter listening intently with amusement. There was no way to quietly open the gate, so she simply strode in and took a place on the ground with them. Peter waved a greeting, Ford leaned over to kiss her cheek. Peter raised an eyebrow. “I wasn’t aware you had a cl- guest- over today… I’d have come over later if I’d known,” he said to her softly, suddenly uncomfortable.

Confused for a moment before understanding what he meant, she replied, “Hn? A- _oh._ No, Peter, Ford is my friend and neighbour. He knows about my job…” She flashed a smile for them both. “But I understand if you want your time with only me, Peter. It isn’t like we see each other often. Ford, Peter is an old friend. We go back… how long, Peter, almost fifteen years? The old alt-board days online.”

“Didn’t we meet over the Christian board?” he asked, trying to remember back that far, dappled shadows spilling onto his high cheekbones, sunlight glinting off his pale hair through the leaves overhead.

“I think we met over a politics thread, but it had to do with Christianity in America versus other countries… or… was it a Christian board that talked about politics?” Nina frowned, also fuzzy on the origins of their meeting.

“Either way, I think we trailed off onto AOL or e-mail soon after that.”

Nina nodded. “You were engaged back then. To that girl. Anna? I think? I’m sorry it didn’t work out. I don’t think I’ve heard you talk about anyone like that since. But who knows- you go to enough places, you might meet someone who wants to travel with you, if you’re looking.”

Ford sniffed. “You’d be surprised. People talk about wanting to pick up and leave, but when it comes time? There’s so much tying a person to one place, even if it isn’t a matter of finances.”

Peter looked at him carefully, nodding in agreement. “I think so.” He and Ford caught each other’s eyes, sharing some unspoken knowledge. Then Ford grinned, breaking the moment of silence.

“Well, Nina, your friend is an interesting one. You didn’t say you knew another polyglot! We should talk again sometime. I can give you my e-mail address. I’d invite you to dinner, but tonight is a family event!” He reached out and shook Peter’s hand. Nina was elated that they seemed to like each other so much. It made life easier when she thought that she wouldn’t have to deal with jealousy politics between the few people regularly in her life. Maybe, when she found any energy left in herself, she could cook for all three men and impress them. Nina did have a strong repertoire of dishes that she was skilled at making; she just rarely cooked more than the basics for herself. But if it were for someone else? Then food is something worthy of spending time and money on!

Tonight was Shabbat though, and she had promised the twins a few loaves of her challah. It was made late the night before, set to rise while she was at work. It would be more than enough time, but it was the only way to accomplish the favour and still clock in that day. Ford liked his with poppy seeds; Stan, surprisingly, preferred plain egg-wash. She would not be joining them, nor was she aggrieved by this. Rather, she encouraged the men to spend time doing enjoyable things, and agreed that a ritual set on a specific day would possibly help them both. Their only stipulation: they would like bread before sundown, when Shabbat began. More than a reasonable request, and Ford generously overpaid her for the cost of groceries. Apparently, Stan had told him of her trouble paying the bills.

Ford, ever observant, had decided that after the previous day, he didn’t want her to get wrapped up in a job she hated. After reading a chapter of his book, they took a shower before he threw fresh towels on her bed, insisting on massaging oils into her skin. They had a talk about her perhaps finding a job she liked while working part-time at the current one. With the holidays already coming so soon, being November, she could easily find someone short on staff. Ford had already recognized her habit of locking into a topic or situation, being unable to redirect herself easily. He worried about her hyperfocus, absently wondering if this is what he had been like with his research projects years ago. He insisted on paying her for the bread ingredients, and more for the labour. She had insisted otherwise, but he refused to hear it. When she turned down the money again, he hid it in her work shoes on his way out.

Peter would just have to wait a bit, or chat with her while she did the final punch-down on the dough, braided it up, and washed it with egg. Fortunate that she’d thought to double her recipe; she’d have enough for Stan and Ford, and for Peter and herself. It would only take maybe an hour. She informed her friend of her responsibilities as they went inside. Peter was happy to have fresh-cooked food, a real luxury to him Stateside. Somehow, he didn’t consider even restaurant food to be remotely “real cooking”. He could taste the difference if something was frozen or premade. It was an issue with ‘flavour permeation’, every bite tastes the same because it’s sat and stewed too long. Even if she wasn’t making pasta from scratch, which she could theoretically do, he was happy to be eating warm bread out of the oven and whatever she made up for dinner. Nina could count on it.

Ford and Stan, too, were excited to have the first loaves fresh from the oven, wrapped in a linen towel. Neither had expected the small gift of another jar of locally-made honey, a gesture of love and a nod to the first meal they had enjoyed from her home. She quickly hugged them both and ran back upstairs, eager to both see her long-absent friend and to let the twins get on with their holiday.


	20. The First Shabbat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nina is invited to her first Shabbat for great food, lovely company, and a night of comedy movies.
> 
> TW: Ford has a mild panic attack during the movie, resolved quickly thanks to Stan.

Trying to hide revulsion, Nina stammered, “N-no, I have no idea how to de-bone a fish, Stanley. My grandfather always did it, not me. Anyways, I haven’t been fishing since… well, there was with the two of you, not that we caught anything, but… since… I was maybe five?” Nina cringed but found herself fascinated at Stan’s skill as he pulled small bones out of a large cut of fish. He seemed to be able to do with by touch, and by practice.

Stan was about to answer when Ford barged in to Stan’s apartment with a grin, calling out that he was pretty sure that he had caught something weird on his camera phone. He was always so excited when something unusual was spotted; Nina was pretty sure that he was even collecting malformed candies for some odd hoard, but she hadn’t known what to say to even ask about it. Ford was so amused by his find that she followed Stan’s lead and let him talk on all about what he’d spotted. The boys finally seemed gloriously happy, and it was about time. A long day’s fishing trip, some hiking, and hours of banter had sorted a lot of the restlessness and boredom out of the two while Nina busied herself at work.

Typically, Nina would have been working that night as well, but she had been invited down to her first Shabbat and had no idea what was going to happen- only that she had been asked to bring down some of her favourite comedy movies for after dinner. Since Stan liked kids’ shows and Ford loved ‘weird’ things, she decided that _The Addams Family_ was probably right up their alley. If they had time, she brought the sequel as well. They had told her that technically, the holiday starts at sundown, but that Shabbat is a ‘time away from time’: whatever happens in the outside world is away from the comfort and closeness inside, just for that one little night a week. For one little night, she could dedicate to her friends, her family, have a glass of wine, and reconnect with their worlds, their thoughts and lives outside of the perfunctory ‘maintenance’ of coordinating with schedules and classes and whatever else.

There was more to it, of course, but even they didn’t exactly follow all of the rituals. The spirit is what counted most to them. While it somehow aggrieved Ford that their first welcoming gift from a goy was the gift that gave them the inspiration to return to their families’ tradition, irony had not escaped him. He needed a reminder of the world he had literally floated away from. Secretly, he was a tiny bit grateful. And she had no idea of the gravity of such a small action… but if that’s what it took, it brought he and Stan closer, forcing them to open up to each other as adults more often instead of letting things fester between them. There just wasn’t a way to explain to her what it really meant.

Stan handed him a glass of wine while Ford uploaded the photos taken with his phone to his computer. The scent of fresh-caught fish cooking in cast iron mixed with fresh bread baking in the oven, filling the small apartment and floating out the open window to waft out the side of the building.

Together, it seemed, Stan and Nina were quite a team in the kitchen. Stan had rough skills but excellent taste; Nina had more technical refinement but less experience. She allowed Stan to give her orders, guiding her on how to taste something, while asking him to let her perform any tasks she could see he didn’t have the ability to carry off. Despite LASIK clearing the cataracts from Stan’s eyes (Ford’s insistence), she knew he still didn’t have perfect vision. While he was used to a lifetime of wearing his glasses, they had the drawback of fogging up with steam or switching from opening the freezer to standing over the stove. Nina had no such handicap, and it made him proud that she would see him as an authority- and do half of his work for him. It had been many, many years since he had the motivation to cook food for anyone. He had no desire to cook for only himself, but if someone else was hungry… and if she would do most of the work, even better!

Soon, the sun would set. Everything should be ready by then. Nina politely accepted a small glass of white wine, declining Stan’s generous pour of red to avoid a headache. As reparations, she had gone with him the day before to pick up the groceries and bought extra red wine for he and his brother to share on her behalf. She preferred a pear-tinged wine with nouveau alchemical artwork on the label. Her previous favourite involved golden leafy filigree featuring a red fox, but she could no longer find the bottle. Stan poured her a generous bit, offering it to her with an enthusiastic “L’chayim, Marina!” It sounded alien on her tongue, but she greeted him back in kind, wishing him a blessing to his life. Only one glass in and she started to feel more bubbly already. Draping a hand on Ford’s shoulder, she didn’t speak for fear of interrupting his train of thought. To her, the photo on the screen looked like some kind of lens flare- but how would a lens flare cast a shadow? And how is a lens flare that low to the ground? It made no sense. Odd, indeed. Maybe Ford was onto something. Absently, she kissed his hair and stroked the back of his neck before wandering back to check on the oven.

 

* * *

           

Night settled in, cool air floating into the small space filled with the three of them. Crowded around a square folding table that Nina had provided, they offered appreciation for the food and for each other. Stan was teary-eyed when Ford thanked him for catching the fish and cooking the meal, but he insisted it was just the pepper he’d used before deflecting to compliment Nina’s assistance. Nina demurred by insisting that she had only followed Stan’s orders. He knew what good food was supposed to taste like, and anyways, it was a gift to be invited. “As if you aren’t our friend!” laughed Stan, Ford smiling and shaking his head. “Mabel is gonna love what you sent her, by the way,” he followed up. “All that yarn? And the pig fabric? You said that was for quilting?”

Nina nodded, glancing at Ford. “Yes. I sometimes buy odd lots of people’s collections of sewing supplies, so if there’s something else she might like, both of you are welcome to check. I’ve hidden some bins under the bed…”

“I didn’t know you had such talents!” Ford said, surprised that he had not seen any artwork identifiably hers. Why own so many materials if not to make something of them?

“Ah. Well… I used to. I don’t know what happened. Even on days off, when I have all kinds of ideas and energy, it’s like… I just… can’t get started. Or by the time I locate everything I want to use, I’m exhausted and I didn’t want to leave it all laying out. Even if I live alone now. I guess I just… got into the habit of never leaving anything lying around and never broke it. I’d like to. That’s stupid, isn’t it, to live in my own place and have anxiety over using my own things.” Suddenly realizing that she’d dumped too much information, said things that would make others uncomfortable when this was supposed to be like a holiday, she shut up and hid her face with her glass. “Anyways. I don’t have much talent. So I don’t mind giving it away or reselling for a better price than I paid.” It was true- she had probably given thousands of dollars’ worth of craft supplies at retail price to children’s charities over the past few years. Or sold parcels of more expensive things for a profit and paid the bills.

Stan looked tight-lipped, digging a fork through a tender, flaky cut of fish as if it were a tough steak. Ford stared at Nina hard before taking her wine, setting it aside to hold her hand. “It really isn’t stupid. And I am sure you have plenty of talent. You are also a perfectionist, like myself. And perfectionism can be a poison that prevents you from improving yourself out of fear of something going wrong. Not starting at all? That’s far worse.” He gave an encouraging smile, laughter in his eyes, candlelight glinting off his glasses.

Nina thought it was absolutely ridiculous that he’d made Stan get LASIK, but not himself. When Stan had told her about the ordeal, Ford had insisted that he looked better with his glasses, and there was no guarantee Stan would need them afterwards… to which Stan replied, _“We’re twins, idiot!”_ But she had to admit, the ‘glasses look’ suited him well. She avoided responding.

“I’m gonna hire you to make something for Mabel, then. Maybe something for Dipper. When I figure out what, you’re going to have to learn to sew better and we’ll pay you,” Stan said in a tone that brooked no refusal. Chewing a chunk of bread thoughtfully, he followed up, “Y’know, a commission. Get over this stuff about not doin’ what you want in your own house. Toughen you up some.” Nina raised her eyebrows.

“A commission? I’m not- I mean, I really don’t have more than straight lines and button-sewing mastered…”

“Tough, kid! Ford is right. Can’t figure out how good you really are if you don’t break your boundaries. So practice starting tomorrow and I’ll talk to the kids about something they’d like to have sewn for them.”

Ford smiled and shook his head, patting Nina’s leg under the table. “He might be onto something. But… what is it you say? ‘No pressure’? I think you’d make something quite good. You do have impressive attention to details. And if your sewing is as good as your gardening, or your baking, I bet you had a lot of talent waiting to emerge.”

Embarrassed, Nina blushed. Even in candlelight a flush of pink could be seen across her cheeks, glinting with a pale golden wash of makeup under her glassy dark eyes. She had rushed to dress up after ensuring dinner wouldn’t burn. Not having anything particularly appropriate in itself, she settled for a golden filigree floral headband, dangling earrings set with deep garnet-coloured glass, and a long dress in rich brown featuring sleeves that she had tailoured to three-quarters length, embroidered with glints of gold at the edges. She learned simple ‘repairs’ like that after finding that long sleeves were either just an inch too short, or she’d have to go sleeveless. Tonight, it had paid off, especially when paired with an intricate, open shawl crochet in web-like floral patterns in black yarn strung with copper and deep red metallics, a custom piece commissioned as a gift to herself. She felt if nothing else, it made her feel like someone from an old painting, and it was a simple, quick thing to put on. Even Ford had noticed, stopping still while setting up the table. Little things like that made her proud, feeling that if she had impressed him at all, she had done things right. In many ways, things she had learned from her night job had gone a long way during the day. Maybe the twins were right; instead of ignoring the issue, she should do what she would have told them to do: break out the damned machine and learn to sew.

 Stan hugged her with one arm as he bent to clear plates. Nina leaned into him, beaming. This really was a world away from the world. For a moment, anything outside the front door felt like it didn’t exist, cool air floating in from the window the only reminder that the room wasn’t some kind of pocket dimension. The air was becoming chilly though, and moist with the oven and stove off in Stan’s small space. Ford got up to close the window and drop the blinds while Nina helped Stan finish clearing dishes. He insisted on washing them the next day, storing the dirty ones in the dishwasher to prevent bugs. Ford and Nina then moved the candles aside without letting them go out, before delegating tasks. Nina folded the tablecloth for storage while Ford broke down the table and folding chairs, and Stan made popcorn. Small dishes of various candies had been set out on the lower coffee table.

Ford said that the previous two weeks, they had played games and caught up on TV, but they’d had an idea: since Ford had missed out on so many years of pop culture, maybe this could be a day both away from the demands of the outside while learning a little about what was missing. A movie a week, if they found one to agree on. If not, they’d find something else or make more time to videochat family. They both felt like they had lost so much time. Nina took this in stride on one hand, but on the other, they had talked about these things like they’d been on another planet for a few decades. No wonder Stan had asked for a comedy.

 _The Addams Family_ had, unsurprisingly, been a favourite cartoon when the twins were much younger. Ford remarked that none of the characters on the DVD cover really looked like their black-and-white counterparts, saved Morticia. Stan had wanted to be fabulously rich like them, so no one could ever tell him he wasn’t “contributing” ever again (and also, he could have cool hidden rooms and stuff, and no one could stop him from having a pet possum). Ford delighted in seeing someone weird like him being popular in a cartoon, lamenting that it hadn’t translated to ‘real life’. The TV show was just as fun, especially the pet lion upstairs. Ford wanted to learn every special effect technique back then. A ‘remake’ in short-movie form would be fun!

“Well, there’s definitely some hidden rooms and such in this one, but sadly no lion. I wanted to be Wednesday when I was a kid. Turns out, I’m just a Grandmama,” Nina said with a laugh. Stan slid the disc in and plopped into his recliner, toffee candies in hand. Ford and Nina close together in their seat. She softly giggled as he puffed his chest and wrapped an arm around her shoulders, pulling her in tightly. Did Stan just smile at them? But when she looked at Stan, he was already looking elsewhere, watching the movie intently. Ford’s thumb brushed at her cheek, the owner absently enjoying the contact. She kissed his fingers in tiny, silent movements, aware of being watched by her lover. Not wanting to take away too much of his attention, she slowly stretched and curled deeper into the seat, laying her head against his shoulder as he laughed.

As the movie rolled on, Ford became more tense. Stan cracked a line now and then before noticing that his brother wasn’t laughing. Nina laced her fingers through his hand, quietly asking him if he wanted a different movie, one he’d enjoy. He shook his head briefly, blink and she’d have missed it, before resuming his attention on the screen. Nina glanced over at Stan, who shrugged and passed her a bowl of jelly beans. But the scene where Fester told Gomez to _take care! For you, life is all fun and games!_ brought a sharp inhale of breath. Stan must have been waiting for it because he immediately paused the movie and grabbed Ford’s hand, sitting on the coffee table in front of his brother.

“Hey, get the lights?” Stan asked. Nina obliged, hurrying to turn on the living room lamp. She turned to see Ford breathing in deep, slow heaves, swallowing hard as Stan talked to him in a low raspy grumble. She busied herself by clearing up the bowls of snacks, washing up empty ones and refilling others while they talked. It was a ‘safe’ action that served a purpose, she thought. When she returned, it was with a small bowl refilled with jelly beans, the other with chocolates and various nuts mixed together. Stan nodded at her reassuringly. Ford looked wild-eyed again, but was calming down.

“You guys need to talk about something? Stan, I think I picked the wrong movie. I should have thought about you two saying that you’d lived apart for most of your lives. I mean, I figured most people do, but the two of you are different…”

Stan looked at Ford and back at her before shrugging. “Up to you,” he said to Ford.

“If it helps, I can tell you the ending. I mean, there’s a sequel where they all live together, so…” she offered. Ford let his breathe out in one short _whoosh_ , nodding to her. Nina sat back down next to him, giving him more room than before in case he felt claustrophobic. “I mean, you saw the painting in the beginning? How many guys have a face like that?” she said with a wink towards Stan. “Anyways, I’ve got lots of others upstairs that I can grab. Ever seen _Holes_? A kid gets locked up at a work camp and has to escape- and overthrow the evil prison guards in the process to rescue the other kids.” Ford wiped his face with both hands, rocking for a moment.

“No, no, it’s fine,” he said to Stan. “I was just… caught up in the moment, that’s all. We’re fine.”

Stan mock-punched Ford’s shoulder with a grin. Ford smacked him right back, his tension easing as they fought. Nina watched the two bicker, taking the opportunity to fish out the buttered popcorn-flavoured jelly beans and set them on the table. She hated things that looked like one thing but tasted like something else. It confused her brain and definitely set a Bad Texture sense off. Instead, she selected a handful of coconut, lime, and cherry ones for herself- or at least, ones that looked like they could be those flavours. Soon, the atmosphere was re-aligned into an easy one, Ford getting comfortable again, with Nina shutting off the lights for them and checking on the candles.

Ford looked at Nina questioningly when she sat down, motioning towards the pale candies on the table. “Butter-flavoured,” she whispered. Stan waited until they stopped chatting before pressing ‘play’ again. She noted that they kept checking in on each other with small gestures and smiled _. ‘It must be wonderful to have someone who does that for them,’_ she thought, idling at the idea that their closeness was almost romantic, if they hadn’t been brothers.

Ford almost cheered at the end, Tully and Doktor Pinder-Schloss getting their comeuppance, Stan grinning when Fester recovered his memories. The laughter when the reveal for the sequel was introduced: the announcement of another child. Ford wiped his glasses, grinning and red-faced. “Okay, that was a good movie after all!” he proclaimed. “Different from the TV show, but very good. Yes, we’ll watch the next one. Do you want to do another tonight, or should we save it for next week?”

Nina made a low _hnnn_ noise through parted lips, thinking. “Well, you guys had a long day right? I mean, it’s early yet, sunset was only at like, five-thirty… what’s it now, almost ten? But you were out all day, too…” Looking around the room, she offered Stan and Ford the choice. It was, after all, their party and their apartment. Stan was sleepy-eyed already, but Ford seemed wide awake.

“We could put on something else, reruns or something and sleep on this side tonight,” Ford offered. “Stan, you’ve slept in that chair comfortably? Or you prefer the bed?”

“Couch,” Stan corrected Ford. “You can sleep upstairs with her, if you want. Not a big deal-“ he started before recognizing that Ford might have mentioned a sleepover to stay close. “or we could move this coffee table aside some and pile up blankets on the floor like a sleeping bag. Your call.”

The brothers both turned to Nina for an opinion. She wasn’t sure she had one, personally, not understanding how she fit in to the scheme when she already had a place to sleep. If nothing else, everyone could sleep in her apartment, so obviously the question here wasn’t a matter of not having places to safely rest. She chewed her lip before offering to sleep on the floor, if Stan and Ford wanted their couch-bed next door, or to sleep on the floor in Stan’s apartment, or they could all join her upstairs. She was perfectly fine, regardless. A place to sleep is a place to sleep. Ford could sense her circular thinking coming on and opted to ask Stan what he liked best. When he replied that his chair was the comfiest place to be, Ford took action and set the plan: he’d take the folding table and chair next door, get the blankets and pillows, and return in a moment. Stan would decide what channel they watched to sleep to. “Nothing like, sci-fi or horror,” he explained once his brother was out of earshot. “He’s had some bad experiences. A guy tried to kill us awhile back, us and the kids. He don’t sleep well these days.”

Nina had the idea that it was far more than that, but took what she was given and nodded. “Anyways, I don’t expect the sounds of screaming or danger is pleasant when you’re unconscious. I used to turn on a cartoon channel. Or a kids’ movie channel to sleep,” she replied. Who would be comfortable waking up to slasher movie violence? “You can watch what you like, though. I don’t mind,” she offered, not wanting to decide what someone else saw in their own house. She followed up, “besides, I know already. Ford’s got those nightmares with me, too. Bill, right?”

Stan flinched at hearing the name. “Yeah, kid-“

Just then, Ford came back in carrying a bulky armload of sheets, a quilt, and more pillows than Nina had realized they’d owned. Stan fell quiet before changing the subject, Nina unloading the pile from his brother’s arms. “Hey, Ford, how do you feel about the NiteChannel? _Gilligan’s Island_ and stuff? Or stand-up comedy?” Stan asked, as natural as if it had been their conversation all along. Nina smiled at Ford, playing along with the whole thing, shaking out their sleeping arrangements and arranging them on the tile.

“If it gets uncomfortable on the floor, you can take the loveseat, Nina.”

“Likewise, hon. I sleep on the floor pretty often, actually.”

“Yes, so I’ve seen,” he huffed. “Bad for your back in the long run! I’m just used to it.”

Stan rolled his eyes, clicking through the channels as he thought about the future. They were going to have to tell her eventually, if she was really going to be in their lives. At least she handled the basic idea well, and cared for Ford when he showed signs of distress. Ford clearly hadn’t told Nina the details about Bill, so the two of them could come up with a story and sell it to her later. This time, it wouldn’t backfire like Ford telling her they were former military. And most importantly, he was exhausted, and would worry about it tomorrow. He fell asleep in the recliner to the sounds of commercials and the murmuring voice of his brother as he made more coffee.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It should be noted that Judaism is nothing like Christianity in terms of "how to practice", what is mandatory, who "counts" as Jewish, etc. For example, a person who never attends church (or who only attends for a spouse/kids) and who does not believe in Jesus would not be Christian, but it is entirely possible to be both an atheist and Jewish. Those things are not contradictory.
> 
> Shabbat rituals are extremely varied. Stan and Ford are from an era where the "best way" to be an American Jew descended from Russian immigrants was to not be visibly or obviously Jewish, since it marked a person as an outsider. There is a lot of history behind these attitudes, especially after both the genocide of Russian Jews and the later Holocaust, which would have been quite fresh around the time the twins were born. Some people reacted by becoming more observant, learning every tradition and prayer. Some became less- it's safer, or they just assimilated into dominant culture more. Based on their personalities, what has been canonically said about them, canonical experiences (such as Ford's previous worship of Bill and how prayers might affect him), and real-world history, they are likely not 'religious' so much as they can appreciate heritage and tradition. 
> 
> They are still perfectly valid as Jewish people. And if you are seeing the Twins and feeling bad because your Judaism is not as observant as someone elses', or because you can't do certain holidays for personal reasons, or you don't live anywhere near your community... you are still a valid Jewish person, too. It doesn't mean you're "bad". It means you are doing your best, and that's all you need to do. What would Stan and Ford say?


	21. Pomegranates + Nightmares

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ford has some serious thinking to do about his situation. After a conversation of lies, dreams may tell the truth.

Stan lazily regained consciousness with a slight ache in his lower back and a definite crick in his neck. Sleeping in a recliner could do that, he thought, but at least the acid reflux wasn’t giving him any issues. Sleeping in a recliner could do that, too. Piled on the floor not far from his feet were Nina and his brother, his leg thrown over her body, clutching her tightly in his sleep. Stan sat and watched them for a long moment, wondering what Ford would do when it came time to move. Their six months was almost up, and Ford hadn’t yet mentioned his ideas for the next place to go. As peacefully as Ford could finally sleep next to someone, Stan wondered if they were going anywhere at all. With the exception of the one incident, Ford had been sleeping much better (although not perfectly) with Nina next to him. Maybe because she wasn’t a threat? It irked him a little that she could do something he couldn’t, but he was willing to do whatever it took to see Ford heal up.

Which reminded him: he still had to talk to her about Bill.

Ford stirred awake at the sound of the recliner creaking, opening one eye cautiously to identify the sound before raising his head, both eyes open. He searched for his glasses, set on the floor somewhere above his head, before giving up and curling back into Nina’s chest. She was fast asleep. Stan smiled at the sight of them being so comfortable together. He noticed a smudge of her lipstick, deep reddish-pink, near Ford’s hairline. Stifling a laugh, he shook his head. Who was it that said she wasn’t looking to get too involved? They looked awfully “involved” to him, like she was a proper girlfriend to Ford. While Ford still refused to admit it, Stan suspected that he cared deeply for her and was objecting out of… what? Propriety? Stanford Pines had a sense of propriety like dogs have a sense of fashion! So he had a girlfriend. Big deal!

 _‘What was her mystery, anyways?’_ he thought. She hadn’t really done much except let Ford vent, take Stan on excursions to town, and garden. Admittedly, having some fresh herbs and sometimes vegetables to work with was quite nice. A real change from what Stan normally ate, but when Nina cooked for them (now becoming a weekly event), he found that he actually kind of liked what she and Ford called “real food.” But that wasn’t much. How had she caused Ford to change so quickly? Unless he was hiding everything, but Stan didn’t think that was the case. He’d notice it in his own brother. And Ford had been a little more open lately… Ford was clearly trying, at least, to admit when something was wrong or if he was just not in the best mood. They had even gone to a gym Ford had investigated together (he’d said something about a young punk at the desk, but when Stan went with him, it was a girl…) and punched a bag for awhile. Both of them had been able to let off some steam. He had asked Ford if Nina could join them; it occurred to Stan that with her muscle, she should be able to throw a decent punch. He still hadn’t asked her to come. Another thing to get around to.

Stan made himself a cup of coffee, noticing that the pot was still warm. How late had they stayed up? He had wanted to go somewhere, but it could wait. He wasn’t even sure of where he wanted to go, other than “out” anyways. Couldn’t kill him to stretch his legs. By how cold the window glass was, he guessed that the day would be chilly. Good day for a hot breakfast he didn’t have to make. With a glance at the pair sleeping on the floor, Stan got dressed, grabbed his keys and wallet, and left for the diner. There was a stack of pancakes with his name on them!

 

* * *

 

A short time later, Ford finally woke for real and stretched. His hips ached from decades of difficult circumstances and hours of sleeping on barely-cushioned tile. Nina groaned as she turned off of her bad shoulder, which had been sandwiched between Ford’s fluffy hair and the decidedly not-fluffy floor. She sat up and yawned like a cat before gazing sleepily up at Ford, who had already launched into a kind of slow calisthenic routine. His lithe body finding it’s natural range of movements again fascinated her, showing her how powerful he could be despite appearing so average underneath his preferred flannel and jeans. He reached out a hand to help her up, supporting her as she stood so that she didn’t get dizzy, and offered to walk her through his routine. Without replying, she reached out to him, running her hand down the curve of his torso, a pleased smile on her lips, fingertips lingering on his hips before his threaded into them. She blushed.

“You really do enjoy my appearance?” he asked, his voice still gruff from waking. She nodded slowly, avoiding looking at his face. He continued, “Even though I’m getting old?”

“ _Getting_ old?” she teased, making a face Ford had learned to recognize as an expression of incredulity, one she wore when they bantered or mildly disagreed on something. It was remarkably similar to her expression when trying a food she didn’t like. Ford would have been wounded at her remark otherwise, but he found that she’d held his age against him less than he himself did. For the first time since McGucket, he had a real friend. It had taken months to realise that. He wasn’t sure what to do- a _real friend_ after all this time. One he wasn’t related to.

She grinned and kissed his cheek before announcing that she was running upstairs to brush her teeth and clean up a bit. He couldn’t help but to watch her lilting sway, following behind her to check the mail (but mostly, to drink in her energy for one more minute) before returning to Stan’s apartment to clean up the room for himself. There was a lot on his mind from the night before- especially where she fit in with them, with him, after the discussion they’d had once Stan was asleep.

He still wasn’t sure this was a relationship. Relationships were supposed to be romantic. He wasn’t bringing her flowers, or taking her to the movies, or any of that stuff. But this was pretty close to what he’d wanted from girls in his twenties and thirties. This was it. Except that she was probably in her late twenties or early thirties, and he… was not. Too late already for all of that. But here she was, treating him like some strange kind of lover/best friend, when if he thought about it, they barely knew each other. And yet, he wanted to just ignore that part of the problem, and just enjoy what he had right then. It was radically different from anything he’d ever done and it left him feeling lost the moment she had gone off to do something else.

What would happen when they left for good? They’d keep in touch, obviously. Would she come visit them? He was thinking about California, to be nearer to Shermie, Mabel, and Dipper… He could always pay for her stay, he surmised. She would never be able to afford it on her own. The ‘old man’ part of him griped about everything being more expensive upon his return, but when he looked at the data, he found that inflation of housing, education, and virtually everything else had skyrocketed compared to earning wages since he’d been gone during the 80’s. No wonder Stan had been devastated when Ford had told him to leave his house- where would Stan have gone? What job could he have gotten? In retrospect, his anger had been incredibly selfish. He would pay for the rest of his life, every dollar he’d ever made, into making someone happy. He hadn’t gotten the chance to pay for his parent’s retirement. He would pay for Stanley’s. And if Nina ever asked for help… but she hadn’t. She hated asking for anything. If it wasn’t hers, someone could hold it over her, she’d told him bitterly. But maybe she would let him pay if it meant she’d get to travel…

He’d been dreaming that night on the floor. When he wasn't having nightmares of being back home before realizing he wasn't home, his dreams were usually just swirls of things that would shift from one thing to the next before he could process them, old arguments or current frustrations, made-up people who in waking life reminded him of professors who had turned down his proposals, people he’d met or fought with in other dimensions, or occasionally, women or female-like aliens who turned him down, especially a siren that he really found fascinating. Sometimes, when Nina lamented being misunderstood, he felt the stab of rejection with her: when she described being so misread, he remembered the siren telling him that he only thought he was interested in her, when really he wasn’t at all. Except that he was, and she just made him feel even more foolish when he tried to explain to her how he felt, why she was special… Nina wasn’t so different that way, in the sense that she could insist that she thought or felt one thing, but someone else insisted that she didn’t know herself and really felt something else. She wasn’t particularly romantic, either, he noted. Maybe that’s why she didn’t mind. She didn’t see his lack of understanding how dating worked as a problem to be solved. She just took him as he was. And that night, he dreamed of living with her in a big house, where the kids lived upstairs again, with a garden outside and her room like a palace built into an ice cavern. She made him a mirror to hang, woven from gold and brass wires into a snake curling in on itself, painted with gold ink on the back as a hidden spell for as long as it was unbroken. A single-strand web on the back shaped as the Magen David, to trap Bill so that he would never come through again. When she smiled, it was the ruthless grin of hunger for victory. Her mouth began to bleed, dripping into pomegranate juice, staining the carpet. He woke up to the real Nina, almost startling at her mouth stained deep pink before he remembered her makeup from the night before.

For a moment, he thought he’d caught on to her real Self.

An involuntarily chill ran through his body as he picked up the bedding from the floor, shaking it out and folding it again neatly. As he wiped down the counters and moved back the coffee table, he had this nagging sensation that she, like Bill, wasn’t all that he’d seen. One side of Ford told him that he was paranoid and that no evidence outside of a dream had supplied this feeling, which is not evidence; the other side told him that dreams tell a lot to a person when the conscious mind can’t find it- Bill had shown him that, one of the few things that turned out to be true.

They had talked about Bill a little the night before, likely the source of the dream to begin with. She had been adamant that if he was still alive, she’d _eat his eye like a pomegranate, just to bring him the pain he’d brought you_. That must be it. A mix of Shabbat meant his dreams would involve religion, and what was the Star of David but two triangles? In gold and brass, yellow like Bill? With a centre- perhaps like an eye to the subconscious? No coincidence, there. He had been taken aback by her sudden waspish turn of personality, her eyes narrowing, stone-faced and cold, when he’d said that Bill had electrocuted him… that was how he got the scars on his wrists and neck. Then, he decided, he’d have to tell her the whole story. Or at least, a version of it.

He hadn’t told her that Bill was a magical triangle demon from another dimension. As far as she knew, Bill was a domestic terrorist who latched onto Ford posing as a fellow scientist, who manipulated him into stealing toxic materials to ‘research’ while secretly making weapons, with dreams of ending the world. Ford put the kibosh on it, Bill went after the kids and his brother to make him comply. That was the story, and he was sticking to it. Nina had shaken her head, unblinking, mug gripped tightly in her hands to the point where Ford thought she might break it. “And how’d this not make the news?” she asked. Ford told her they were told it was a matter of national security, and they’re not supposed to tell anyone. He avoided arrest for his involvement after proving that he was a victim, too. The catch was that officially, no such event ever happened. It’ll be classified for the next hundred years. He was just glad the kids were safe, Bill is dead (Stan shot him). Mabel and Dipper almost died, he and Stan moved far away so that he wouldn’t have to be surrounded by that place anymore. He couldn’t tell if she had taken this in stride; Nina, for the most part, had seemed totally calm for the whole story. Only the way she washed her glass and dried it belied a hint of rage simmering underneath. If he was more honest with himself, it scared him a little.

Maybe it was better to leave her here and forget about all this after they were gone.


	22. Preservation Against the Cold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stan sees a piece of his past repeat and puts a step forward to stop it.

The sound of wet earth and the smell of dampness reached Nina’s senses, almost powerfully enough to make her want to hold her breath. Stan didn’t seem to notice. Another not-too-hot, not-too-cold, slightly rainy in such a way that the rain was like mist hanging in the air, clinging to the skin like cobwebs; uncomfortable, humid, but cool enough. It had rained for two days as another cold front started to sweep in. The next day was supposed to drop several degrees, so Nina had taken the time to check on her plants and move any potted ones close to the walls of the building or the fence in case she needed to clothespin sheets outside. Easier to do the hard work now than in the deeper cold. Preparedness made for the best food. Now, she only had to decide which plants to trim, if any at all, to preserve them inside for food in case a plant died come frost.

Stan had taken the folding chair, chatting with her as she mulled about, checking for spots on leaves and yellow sections where green should have been, turning pots, clustering things together and setting sick-looking plants with each other in an attempt to control infection until she could find out what was wrong. Eventually, they got around to the holidays. “Ford didn’t tell ‘ya?” Stan asked, eyebrows raised. “It’s in only four days! We’re mailing out to the kids in the morning. Want to put anything in for them?”

Nina had no mind to keep track of these things, as she didn’t celebrate any. Or rather, she didn’t see a point in celebrating holidays if they were only by herself. Sometimes she made perfunctory, scheduled calls to family, but she had made fewer of those in the past few years after gradual estrangement. Sometimes a client wanted to talk about being alone during those times. Sex calls turned into quasi-therapy calls, sometimes dropping away from the idea of sex at all. They sometimes even turned into something more genuine- but those callers rarely made a second call. Maybe they felt too exposed, vulnerable. She kept that in mind often when dealing with Ford sometimes. Hanukkah was so soon? That’s right, she had done blue and white sprinkles on chocolates that week. They didn’t have any gold ones.

She thought for a moment, rolling the idea around in her mind. After the conversation with Ford about Bill’s terror, she thought maybe one of them at least might like a weighted blanket. Neither of them seemed to have real issues when she had chatted with them off and on, hanging out in the background with the guys, but appearances like that were deceiving. Stan wanted to see her sewing, and she did need practice, so it would make sense to try a more ambitious project… She made a colour-neutral blanket with beanies that could be added or subtracted into pockets for weight, to make it easier to wash in a normal washing machine. It had taken hours of labour, but fortunately, she had enough fabrics already purchased over the years to make something eclectic but visually pleasing. Still, it could cost quite a bit of money to ship something like that. She mentioned the concern, but Stan shook his head.

“Ford don’t mind. He’ll cover it. We’ve got enough for something like that. He gets it- that’s why he keeps his coat on, even when it’s hot… Can I see it?” Stan actually seemed curious, which made Nina more anxious over every flaw she could mentally detail. Although logically, she knew that Stan might not notice since didn’t like to sleep with too many blankets. It was often too hot for him this far South, and he didn’t like to run the A/C since it was expensive. Since either Mabel or Dipper could use it… it’s a useful gift, he reasoned, without having to talk about the intent behind it. Smart girl.

He followed her up the stairs to her apartment, where she waited at the door to let him inside. She beckoned him to come into the bedroom- he hadn’t seen it before, not really, but it looked comfortable and a little crowded. She pulled a heavy fabric zipper bag from under the bed and turned the contents over on top of the mattress, unrolling the blue cotton to reveal a top patchwork of squares, pieced and reinforced pockets approximately five inches square, held shut with an assortment of all kinds of buttons each an inch wide. Stan saw various stained and natural woods, metals, and even a few faux pearl types, overall giving the blanket a very adult feel that one of them might grow into. She had made the pocket layer in deep rich greens, browns, deep dusky blues, and black. The box next to the bed was marked “bean bags”. Inside each puffy pocket was a bean bag weighing a few ounces so that they could adjust it however they liked. The blanket was only large enough to fit a twin bed, but Stan thought it was more than big enough, especially for handmade work. She said she had no talent? If she had no talent in sewing, he had no talent in car theft!

“This is beautiful,” he exclaimed, swelling with pride. “This is gonna be the best gift I think they’ve ever gotten!” It might have been true, in a way. Dipper was getting a telescope from Ford, with some DDnD miniatures, and Mabel would get edible glitter, specialty papers, and a gift card to the nearest craft store. Stan had stolen an assortment of things and had actually paid for a few as well, but he never knew what to do with his grand-niece and -nephew besides put a roof over their heads and make sure they’d eaten every day. Ford was better at these things. Nina’s gift might not have been one either would be enthusiastic about; this wasn’t something they’d excitedly show off to friends, or spend hours playing with or learning from the way Ford would like… but it was something they might not know they needed. Sometimes, Stan thought, those were the best gifts.

Nina shook her head, saying that gifts should be fun! “Hanukkah is like… Jewish Christmas?” she asked. “They should get stuff they enjoy. But I didn’t know what else to send…”

Stan huffed. “Nothin’ to do with Christmas, but yeah, they get gifts. Supposed to be eight of them, one on each night. Not everyone does that though. I don’t think Ford and I ever got through more than three days or so at home. Pa always said that candles were expensive. We got lights turned on- good enough! Ha!” His laughed barked short and dry.

“Who’s more like your dad, you or Ford?” Nina said, deep in thought as she ran her hands over the patchwork. Stan thought she looked almost sad for a minute, before it faded into her usually almost-blank expression, a Sphinx-like calm.

“Eh?”

“Who’s more like your Pa? You, or Ford?”

She folded up the blanket while awaiting an answer. Stan scratched his belly while debating whether or not to respond at all. Who’s more like Pa? Hard to tell… He helped her put the blanket back in the storage bag before musing, “I dunno. Guess it depends. I’m a cheapskate like him, but Ford’s strict like him. Unless he’s the one wanting to break the rules, which my dad did a lot. Hard on everyone else. Or I thought so. I heard later that he was hardest on himself. I guess Ford’s like that too, sometimes. I look more like Pa, though. I’ll tell you the story of my necklace sometime!”

Nina nodded. “Mom says I’m like my dad, too. But he says I’m like her. They used to fight about it. I don’t know who’s right.” Stan could almost hear the unspoken sentiment, more a feeling than anything, that she missed them. Or missed who they should have been. “Don’t get me wrong, Stan. Neither are really bad people, I think. I used to be angry at them both all the time. In retrospect, I think they just didn’t know what to do with someone like me. And… you ever meet someone who just… it’s like they bring out the worst in each other, but they wouldn’t leave each other either. I just don’t want that to be my life, though. We just… disagree.”

“You must be getting old, to figure it like that. You got brothers or sisters, Nina?” _Oh, she does a very good job as masking her hurt._ He never heard her talk about her family, in all the hours and weeks they’d spent around each other. It was rare she said anything that wasn’t about a subject like art, television, work- something personal. Guarded, like he was. Was. He found later that he no longer cared so much around the right people.

For siblings, she had two, or three, depending on how they were counted- one no good, two… who knows. They’re grown adults now, too, and when they grew old enough, Nina had stopped contacting them, too. No letters or phone calls ever came back to ask how she was doing. One-sided relationships seemed very normal to her, Stan realized. No wonder she never talked about it. She led a very lonely life outside of the twins and her one friend Ford had talked about ( _what was his name?)._ But he was never really around, either. All of her contacts were online or for work. She said she didn’t blame the others. She had chosen a life very different from what most could stand. It wasn’t really so bad…

In retrospect, Stan knew that some of his more extreme actions and reactions were probably from “abandonment issues”, as Ford said. If Nina had those, she had been hurt long enough to never show such a thing. He’d seen that in other guys he’d pulled off jobs with- guys that could just see the most horrific shit and not flinch. They either ended up dead inside, dead, or both. Maybe it wasn’t too late for her. Maybe he could give her what he didn’t have for most of his life. Maybe he could be family, even if things didn’t last with Ford.

Stan took her by the shoulders, standing in front of her at arm’s length, eyes looking to catch hers, jaw tight. They were still for a long moment while he sized her up, her posture slumped with fatigue, dense, tight muscle knotted in the trapezius and into the rotator cuff. “Nina,” he finally stated with a tone of absolute finality. “You’re family now. What happens, what happened, you have us now.” Nina stared at the floor, bottom lip tightening as if she wanted to respond but couldn’t. Stan wouldn’t let go until he heard an acknowledgment. “You have us now,” he stated again more gently. Her eyes started to well up with the barely-there nod of her head. He pulled her in for a tight hug, rocking her from side to side. The hair on his shoulders tickled her face. She was flummoxed- they were… adopting her, of sorts? Or just Stan? It was awfully nice to feel like there was a place, a person to go to if something went wrong. Or to share with when something went right.

Nina felt like she should have been more shocked to realise that she really did love them both.

“What would you and Ford like for Hanukkah?” she asked, trying not to cry. Even only a few days away, she was determined to bring them something they enjoyed. She had a few ideas for Ford, but none for Stan. If she was being declared family, she needed to know him better. Otherwise, it would be the usual; always on the outside, looking in. Performing the motions, achieving nothing.

Somehow, they got off-topic, and for the next few hours they got lunch while Nina listed to Stan’s tales of robbery, smuggling, something called “burgle-bezzelment”, and general homelessness and crime. She was absolutely taken in, convinced that he should write a book about it. Make a million! He liked the idea, reminding her of only one point: technically, he’s already dead. She said that was even better- he’s already dead, so who really wrote the book? And did these things ever really happen? Rack up the cash before anyone figures it out, walk away. Toying with the idea, it turned out Nina could be as devious as he, given the opportunity. She’d have made a great ‘straight man’ in a con scheme. ‘ _Born in the wrong era, born in the wrong era, that kid.’_ Babe. His brother’s girlfriend. Whatever.


	23. With a Little Help from My Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ford makes a small self-discovery, and takes a large step towards changing habits.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you like the story, please feel free to comment or bookmark to get notified of updates! <3

Ford was a bit miffed that Stan wouldn’t go with him again to the field where the strange lights had been spotted. It seemed they were everywhere in that state- at least, everywhere on land. Anywhere there weren’t any houses or people. They seemed to vanish shortly after there was a human to see them, but animals seemed to be completely at ease with the lights and vice-versa. How curious! There seemed to be no rhythm to time of day, although they were often seen in places where dark met light… but that could be sunset, or simply the meeting of shadow with sunlight in the grass. They lilted slowly, back and forth as a snake moves, gently as dandelion tufts, hovering only inches off the ground.

As Ford crouched to the ground, almost laying in the tall weeds, his hair becoming tangled in Shephard’s Needle, his left arm assaulted by a cluster of sandspurs, he patiently ignored the gnats flying too near his eyes and steadied his hand for the video his phone produced. He knew he might have to lay there for a few hours, just in the hopes of perhaps catching these mysterious balls of energy on film, hesitant to alert them to his presence. If he was lucky, maybe today would be the day…

He didn’t think it was strange that not too much went on in this place. Most supernatural or just plain “weird” things happened in Gravity Falls because of it’s bubble of weirdness, after all. Weird things were simply attracted to that one little Oregon town. It was unreasonable to have expected anything out here at all, especially when this location wasn’t chosen for weirdness. It was chosen for Stanley’s comfort and relaxation. He wished _something_ would happen, though. After so long always on the run, standing still at all left him somehow uneasy, jumpy. Being more active, especially with Stan, a few times a week had helped immensely. Come to think of it, he was more aware of what day it was, what time it was, since starting Shabbat with Stan (and sometimes Nina, although she often had to work) too. That felt good, though. For once, he felt like he had really accomplished something, even if it was as small as regaining one small piece of his sanity.

And for the first time in a long time, those thoughts weren’t followed up with _‘If it hadn’t been for Bill…’_

But after two hours, the bugs and grass began to itch too much. Ford’s eyes were scratchy and red, his nose redder and starting to drip from allergies. And not one shred of proof of the mysterious lights on video. Ford grumbled as he packed his bag, stopping only to wipe his face and ruffle the dirt of out his hair. Next time, he’d take the damn pills Nina had offered. _Better living through chemistry…_ she’d told him. She was right and he agreed, but he didn’t think it would be so bad in the winter. What passed for ‘winter’ there, anyways. Middle of December, and it was barely above 14C. He threw his bag into the truck with frustration. Another day wasted! His jacket was covered in sandspurs throughout one arm, prickling through his shirt. He grumbled to himself about inconveniences as he plucked them off, throwing them into the mud. The other stuff could just be washed off later.

Then he realized what he was really frustrated with: McGucket believed him, of course he did, about the supernatural and weird but he was across the country. He had someone brilliant to take notes to, to indulge in the joy of discovery with, to mull over notes with. Nina was right above him, and didn’t seem to have the mind for it at all. Sure, she had the skill to crunch data; she’d proven that much when tallying up and categorizing a stack of notes on winnings and losings for Stan. She could be fast with incomplete information and come back with something within the realm of plausible, with any downfalls included in her notes. But she waved off his photos as a trick of the light, or some kind of lens flare, or a program that put in the photos to look real- ‘Photoshop’? She had seemed almost grim, quick to compliment his enthusiasm before changing the subject, like he had been an idiot child excited over Santa Claus. He wanted her to believe him so badly. If only he could just take her to Gravity Falls with him, show her how strange the world could be- would she be horrified, like Fidds? Or would she revel in it, like Ford wanted her to? Or would she try to find a “reasonable explanation” for everything, like the Eyebats being robotic or something?

Ultimately, she was a good friend, who did things that Good Friends did: she brought groceries if they needed something, was always polite to them, watched movies and went for late-night jaunts with them, she supported Ford when he was close to a mental breakdown. Even though Ford was still angry over feeling like she had secretly conspired with Stan to watch his health, making sure he wasn’t totally crazy, he understood why they had done it. Bill had done some horrific things to his mind, swapping words in his lexicon, planting false memories, erasing real ones… how could he be sure that what he thought was real? But that way lay the path of becoming unhinged. Ford had to trust himself, and keep faith that even when he was angry, Stan was looking out for him. And so was Nina, even when she didn’t really understand the problem. But he wanted her to be more than that. The kind of intimacy she gave was not enough, he needed her to understand who he was, where he came from, what he did outside of the façade of basic details… He needed her to be on his side for real. He needed to _know_ that he could really count on her and trust her.

The dream of her bleeding grin came back to him again. Could he really trust her? She did rush to help him when he’d had one of the worst panic attacks since Weirdmaggedon. Other things she did were perfunctory, but that day was both singularly awful and somehow blank for him. She loved him, didn’t she? She never flinched at his hands, not even from the beginning, when he might have killed her in her own hallway. Instead, she knew he could kill her, and approached him with kindness. She respected him enough to let him cover to his own brother without even knowing him. He could trust her. Just not enough to tell her anything truthful about him. That wasn’t really trust, though, was it?

Before he could go around in circles like this, as he did from time to time, he reached for his phone while sitting at a red light. There was only one person he could trust to undo this mess, someone disconnected from her (if not still a bit disconnected from reality): a true friend, for certain… Fiddleford McGucket. His hands clenched the steering wheel as the phone rang in his lap, hoping Fidds would pick up. It would be two? Three? Hours different from him, just past a late lunchtime. When the sound of the receiver clicked and he heard Fidds’ voice, his breath came out in a whoosh that left him slightly dizzy. How long had he been holding that in? It didn’t matter.

“Fidds, it’s me. I know it’s been awhile, and I am sorry to call like this, but… I think I am about to ruin everything with a friend again…”


	24. Everything is Fine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything is Fine with Ford. Of course it is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: mild internalised homophobia

Ford paced around the room, thankful his brother wasn’t home. From the note, Stan was off with Nina at the beach, possibly for the next few hours. Good. He needed to calm down. That was a conversation he should have had that morning, when he had all the ‘alone time’ in the world. McGucket had told him about some things he had long forgotten, and some things he couldn’t remember at all. He would remember if he’d ever had a crush on his best friend… wouldn’t he? But Fidds didn’t sound like he was kidding. Instead, he was more wistful, bemused, and nostalgic. Ford put aside the stages of discomfort and slight roiling disgust towards himself, trying to will away the acid building in his stomach and the sulfurous burn in the back of his mouth rising as a pre-vomit taste, to continue finding the answers to his questions when Fidds had developed a habit of rambling. Sometimes, he regretted the existence of the Memory Gun more than he regretted his previous research. In retrospect, it would explain so many gaps in his recollections.

             Fiddleford was probably right. He had no reasonable expectation that someone on the outside of the world of paranormal research, especially outside of Gravity Falls, would believe in the sheer monstrosity of what happened to either of them. Furthermore, a dream is sometimes just a dream. Ford had said so himself, everything during that day had led up to having a nightmare while he slept; that doesn’t mean it’s some sort of prophecy.

_I’d had a crush on Fidds._

This one thought kept intruding, cycling, desperately trying to remember that, trying to remember whether if he _had_ had a crush, why would he have told anyone at all? He hadn’t written it in any of his journals, not even in code. Then again, it would have been something so secret, he would never have written it down. Fidds would have been able to crack it. That couldn’t… that would never… he wouldn’t…

_“Well, now, it might not be too late with her. Ford, I’m glad you found someone new…”_

_“What do you mean? I didn’t have anyone before. Not in this dimension, at least.”_

_“Uh… no, I guess you wouldn’t remember. Hee-hee-hee, I might have blacked that part out for you…”_

_“Blacked out what?! Fiddleford?!”_

_“You remember how we were in college… and after I moved in with you, we spent all our time together… I think you were just confused, Ford. That’s all. You were messin’ with my Cubiks’ Cube all the time, and I know I was in your way sometimes… You were always on me about the chew, but in retrospect it was your way of showing you care. We just took a night to get drunk and relax. And you told me you’d felt something for me, and if it didn’t work out with Emma... It kinda just slipped out. You were mortified and almost fell down the stairs tryin’ to walk away… I just… tried to help…”_

Ford was dead silent after that. Absolutely not, not him... but… there was once… He vaguely remembered the rush of Fidds’ hand on his shoulder when they were much younger. He had chalked it up to the thrill of discovery in their work together. Fidds was right- he was just confused, back then. If Fidds was telling the truth. Then again, he had no reason _not_ to tell the truth… he _trusted_ Fidds…

 _"You still there, Ford? Look, like I said, you were actin’ real funny by that time already, I didn’t take it serious. And you were upset, so I just… It was better for both of us. You were just lonely, I bet. Mixin’ up closeness. That’s all. I know you didn’t mean it. And look, you got this girlfriend now!”_ Fidds laugh was a whistle and dry like autumn leaves.

He tried to backtrack, _“Oh I shouldn’t have said nothin’. I’m sorry. I’m just excited for you. You gonna bring her here to the Falls? I’d love to meet her!”_

_"Yes, ah, I don’t know. She’s… odd. That’s the other thing I wanted to talk to you about. She’s got this way of thinking, like a computer… maybe if you talked to her, you could tell me how to understand her better. I was never good at computers. That was always your job. She could use some new friends, anyways. Stan says she doesn’t know anyone, doesn’t really have family…”_

They talked for another hour, with Fiddleford getting off-track for twenty minutes at a time, half of what he said a confusing mix of nonsense, the other half making sense only if Ford solved the context like a puzzle. Nina had more than enough patience to give Fidds someone to talk with, and she was used to phone work. And the more Fidds had someone to talk to, the more his memory started to come back, and his insanity would let up just a little for short blocks of time. Maybe under Nina’s influence and problem-solving skills, they could play off of each other, and Fidds would find a little support in her… and she would find someone who could talk code with her. Ford wasn’t sure what Fidds had done since the days of FORTRAN, ALGOL, and Prolog… actually, Fidds probably knew (or had known) more languages than that. He was a genius, one of the best, maybe better than himself in his field. Had Ford not usurped that talent and time, Fidds would have been lauded as one of the greatest computing and engineering minds of all time. And Ford had robbed him of that, all in the pursuit of some stupid hypothesis about where plaidypuses came from.

The guilt and remorse struck him more deeply than before. Being alone had only given him time to pace and think. Stan still wasn’t home. Ford rubbed his face, sore from dry skin and sensitive from allergies and shaving, before deciding that maybe it would be better if he went out and had a drink. Just one, around a bunch of people. Maybe he’d chat some stranger up, the way he used to. It was like being in a different dimension. He could do this. It would be good for him. Fidds was right; he was probably just confused back then. And whatever he said, it was over thirty years ago, done and over with. Nothing to worry about or even think about anymore. And with that, he grabbed his wallet again and scrawled a note for Stan in turn: _Headed to Beach Dive! Call me if you need me!_


	25. Words Get In the Way

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ford branches out to meet strangers; Stan can see something in Nina and Ford that breaks his heart. He couldn't help Ford when they were young and it mattered; maybe he can fix Nina before it's too late for her to learn.

The dim lights were punctuated by spots of bright white and blues, with occasional reds, yellows, and greens in the haze of the bar. This bar was one of few that allowed smoking indoors, to Ford’s chagrin. The stench was heavy and almost made him wheeze, but overall, the atmosphere was one he was used to. He ordered a double vodka on the rocks and leaned back to take in the view around him. A woman across the bar, with silver hair and skin that had been in the sun without protection for too long, kept looking over at him. He caught her, locking eyes and flashing a lopsided smile for a moment, before she blushed and turned back to her companion. Ford gazed back into his glass, swilling the already nearly-melted ice around.

            Whoever was on the karaoke mic was pretty good that time. He couldn’t see around the corner to catch who it was, but they were really fantastic, with a smooth contralto voice and quite good timing with the music. Most amateur singers, and even some professionals, would find themselves just slightly off-beat when their lyrics were supposed to pick up due to the natural delay between hearing something and responding to it, which could take three to six seconds. However, if a person learned the music very well and anticipated the upcoming note, they could hit at just the right time and carry off the song. The faster the tempo, the more difficult it became. This song was slow, but with some vocal training, the singer could be marvelous. Although Ford hadn’t played piano in years, he still had a grasp of musicianship from the mathematical, technical angle. He could appreciate a good singer.

            The chair next to him grinded across the polished cement flooring before settling it’s occupant with a clatter. Two others followed down the line, a small group of guys perhaps in their forties excitedly chattering about dice types. One of them pulled out a worn green cotton bag of luminous red and black dice, like blooms of ink suspending in transparent red liquid. Ford tried not to look too interested, but… he was really very interested. As he listened in on their conversation, he ordered a burger and another double with a glass of water. The goal was to relax, not to get drunk. It was rude, but he had the itch to play DDnD so badly, and no one in two years to play with! As the second double settled in, he cut in and asked the guy next to him what game he was talking about that involved vampires and drama, pulling out his own bag of electroplated dice. The game the guys played with the woman they hung out with was one Ford had never played, although the mechanics sounded much the same. He asked if anyone locally had a DDnD group that he could join- he just moved here, and hadn’t played in so long…

They spent the next hour talking gaming, eventually moving to a four-seater table. Ford covered a few plates of corn dog minis, fries, and nachos for the table, which earned him instant likability. It never ceased to amaze him that regardless of species or dimension, almost anyone’s affability could be purchased with snacks.

“Actually, I’m in my seventies now. Just turned, but I still feel like I’m twenty-something stuck in this old man’s body…”

“What? I don’t believe it! You barely look mid-fifties!” Chris’ girlfriend exclaimed. “I wanna know what products he’s putting on his face,” she said to her friends. “I don’t want to look like leather when I’m old!”

Ford winced at being old. He knew that he was, of course, but it was hard to get used to the idea. But he laughed at the notion that he was some beauty freak, splashing his face with potions. “Just exercise, I’m afraid. And when I have it, sunscreen. Really, limit your sun exposure with your clothing, and you’ll be fine. Works out in the desert!”

“You were in the desert? Where at?” one of the guys with a big scar on his bicep wanted to know. “Was it Egypt? No, you’re too old for that…”

He shook his head, redirecting the conversation. There were deserts in the US. He would just tell them that he lived in Arizona and New Mexico for awhile. Research, since he was a scientist. A biologist, of sorts. Technically… As they really got to know each other better, two of the guys were veterans, one a plumber and the other now in mechanics. Chris, the third guy, spent his days in IT, and Vicky was an office manager for a local newspaper publishing house. Ford made mental notes quickly, since Vicky would be the hardest one to convince of any lies. His story would have to be straight with her. As far as they were concerned, he moved here to be closer to family during his retirement years so that he could go boating and enjoy the weather.

That beautiful voice floated through the bar again, sending a deep shiver of pleasure through his now-inebriated body, filling his senses like rich wine. Almost giggling, he reached for another mustard-covered corn dog bite. The waitress came by to clear glasses and empty baskets while they ordered another round. Ford changed his drink to something with orange juice, already aware that he would need to replace electrolytes after all the sun that day. Sun. Tequila Sunrise. Tall. That sounded good. Just one more, that’s it. He excused himself, getting up to stretch. As he headed to the restroom past the stage, he could swear the singer was his friend. The lights somehow cast shadow on her face, lighting up her hair like a halo, but the shape of her curves was right, and her brown skin luminous was earthy and heavenly at the same time under and around a shimmering metallic sheer shift over a cerulean bathing suit.

_“I tried to say ‘I love you’, but the words get in the way…”_

She hadn’t noticed him, it seemed. She had no idea he was there at all. He shuffled to the doors as people around him clapped and whistled, the giggle echoing through the mic. Was his brother here, too? That was her. Through increasing fogginess of inebriation, he was fairly certain that was Nina. Marina could be lustrous and sexy when she wanted to be.

Washing his hands under cool water, he suddenly had the feeling that he’d lost track of time. How long had he been rubbing his skin with the soap? He looked at himself, bleary-eyed, in the mirror. It was time to stop. Past time to stop. He hadn’t meant to get like this, he had just lost track while he was socializing. The food was supposed to stop the alcohol from processing so quickly. Oh- he had forgotten. Dehydration from being outside all day. One glass of water wouldn’t have been enough. He couldn’t really feel his face anymore. Definitely time to stop, but he couldn’t drive home. Ford made a fuzzy plan to find Nina and Stan, to ask them to drive him home. If they were sober enough themselves. He hadn’t been drunk in a very long, long time. He hadn’t even intended it this time- honestly! How irresponsible! That was supposed to be Stan’s job, not his! But…

He stumbled back to the table, trying his best to keep his steps straight and sure. Confidence was eighty percent of the game. He could sober up, he was sure of it. He’d made up his mind on the way back across the room. If Nina had seen him, she hadn’t tried to get his attention. Mike welcomed him back and invited him to try out a game of Vampires: The Eternal Drama, while Vicky passed him a bowl of popcorn. They exchanged phone numbers while Ford downed another glass of water, abandoning the remainder of the liquor. He sat there and made small talk for another fifteen minutes or so before saying goodnight and wandering off to see if his brother was there. He paid the bill _(how did I run up nearly $100 on my tab? … I probably… oh, the food, yes… it doesn’t matter…)_ and scanned the house for a woman about his height, wearing a gold see-through shift dress, or an overweight twin with a Hawaiian shirt on.

Oh, over by the pool tables. Of course. He could see Stan’s burly silhouette from a distance, holding a cue in hands, making a sliding motion. Nina was bent over sensuously with a cue of her own, trying to learn Stanley’s hand motions as he watched and corrected her. The two of them worked their way around the table, Stan’s stern expression turning to joy when she hit a ball just right. So, he was finally teaching her how to play pool. With her proclivity towards separating men from their money, Ford was sure that Stan would be on her side all the way- so long as she wasn’t taking _his_ cash, that is. Some guy came up, sloshing a drink in his hand as he stumbled over to Stan’s table, just missing Nina as he attempted to clumsily slap her rear. Stan looked like he was about to punch the guy when Nina gently lowered his arm. Ford couldn’t hear the words she spoke, but the confused and angry expression Stan wore let him know that Nina might take care of the dude. Ford stepped back into the shadows of the wall and watched.

Drunk guy tried again to grab at her, this time, aiming for her chest. She swiped at his hand, digging her thumb deeply into that soft space between his thumb and first finger, swiftly bending his arm backwards as he yelped and began to sink to her feet. Her eyebrows raised, lips narrowed to a haughty curve, she hissed something at him before shoving him to the floor. As he got back up, she pressed her cue into his neck. “Want to see what I’ve learned? I bet it’s easier to hit you than a tiny ball.” The guy was more disturbed by how calm her words were spoken and less afraid of being hit with a lightweight stick. Stan punched his hand, the loud smacking sound drawing the guy’s attention. He decided that he didn’t want to deal with that chick’s grandfather and stomped off.

“Psycho bitch!” he yelled. It was the best he could come up with.

She looked at Stan, taking in his burly build and boxer stance. “You know, I think you’re right. You should teach me to punch. It would come in handy. Guys like him are why I don’t like going places by myself. Even in grocery stores, that’s the shit I have to deal with. Like, in the middle of the day, just… trying to get bread or something.” Stan glared, stretching and picking up his cue again.

“Guys treat a girl like you that way, tits- I mean, toots?”

Nina sniffed and rolled her eyes. Stan felt a little guilty then. If anyone treated Mabel the way Stan had treated some women… he would have knocked them out. Something old age and having a kid around had taught him. Now it was just practice to not act that way anymore, even in a cheap, run-down bar at a beach suburb. “Aw, I’m sorry. Old habits. Look, I’ll teach ya. You and me, at the gym or in the side yard. I’ll show you how to throw a good hook, too! You’ll like it!” he boasted before popping two in at once. “And hey, you get good at this, you can drain those guy’s bank accounts on hustling!” For that, Nina broke out into a broad grin. He still didn’t know what her real job was, but he was right- she did like the payoff. Maybe guys like that kind of deserved it.

Stan spotted Ford in the shadows, unmistakable as a short man in a long coat. Ford waved. Stan elbowed Nina, signaling with a shake of his head that they had company.

Stan could smell it on Ford’s breath that he was drunker than he thought. Nina gave him a long hug. His sweater felt so, so good, and his heat rushing through it more so. She kissed his hands slowly as he watched with eyes glassy from inebriation.

“Oh-kay, you two lovebirds! I think we’ve all had a very long, busy day. Why don’t we get home?” Stan gruffly announced. God, both of them drunk! Worst idea ever! At least Nina could keep a tune and was an introspective drunk. Ford could either be very excitable, which could turn to anger at the drop of a hat, or he would settle into himself and want total privacy, drinking alone in a chair with no noise and no company. As Stan left them to pay the bill, the two took seats in the nearest table to wait for him to come back so they could decide what to do with the two vehicles. Ford almost kissed her, she wanted him to, his low voice becoming tactile rumbling as she reached out for skin-to-skin contact with him again. An obnoxious comment interrupted their revelry; the douchebag from minutes ago had decided to come back and say something. He couldn’t just take his punishment and go.

“Gross. I knew you were a fucked up bitch. Got a thing for old men? Daddy didn’t fuck you good, now you go for grandpa here?” he slurred. Nina was deeply offended, wanting to lock up and go silent, but she knew that was the worst thing she could do in that situation. She wouldn’t justify anything he said, instead opting to let go of Ford’s hand before standing up.

“You should go home, dude. We already had this talk. Fuck off,” Nina firmly but sharply stated. “Seriously. Before one of us gets arrested. I think it’ll be you.”

Ford also wasn’t taking this guy sitting down. His eyes filled with a mean, crafty look, like a dog about to bite someone’s arm off. A fight was never out of the question, and although he wasn’t as strong as Stan, he could still throw a punch that would break a man’s jaw- although, he preferred the throat. It was softer, more devastating, more immediate. Before he could swing first, Stan tapped the intruder on the shoulder. When the guy turned around, Stan grabbed him by the shirt and rushed him into the wall, letting him know that in no uncertain terms would he ever harass a lady in that bar again, or Stan would find out. The guy uselessly tried to wrap his hands around Stan’s fist, trying to get free but too drunk to do much. Mostly, he spent his energy freaking out that he was going to get beaten up by an old man, whining that “It wasn’t fair, c’mon man, I just wanted to get some action...” Stan didn’t care at all, huffing that he shouldn’t have to repeat himself. Nina was absolutely floored. She knew that Stan was built thick like her, with some extra around the middle, but hadn’t realized how much strength was under that. His height had only given him the advantage of having a lower centre of gravity to tackle someone.

The manager was soon behind them with a bouncer to break up the fight that was coming. Stan had already told him about the patron when he paid, and this guy had been trouble before. “Steve, dude, we gotta ban you. This ain’t the first time, and I ain’t replacing the felt on that pool table again. You pay and leave, or we call the cops. You can’t harass people in here, and sure as hell can’t start fights.” He took a photo of the guy’s face on his phone as the bouncer took him away. Stan shook the manager’s hand and slipped him another hundred dollars. Nina pretended not to see it, but Ford just rolled his eyes.

“C’mon, we gotta go,” Stan said to the others. “Ford, you okay to drive?” Ford looked like he wanted to say ‘yes’, but the gentle sway in his walk told them ‘no’. Nina had already sobered up. Alcohol never seemed to last long for her- she was either very tipsy, bordering drunk, or stone-cold sober. The scare of the guy who tried to grab her had sobered her up some. Stan appointed her to drive his brother home. Everyone was exhausted by that point; Stan furious about the last hour of their outing, Nina still processing having an emotion, Ford still looking to hit someone, particularly “Steve”.

“I’ve never driven a truck before, Stan. Can you take Ford, and I’ll take my car? It would make sense,” she offered. Stan hadn’t thought about that. He was so used to having his own vehicle, he’d forgotten that they’d driven there in hers… He sighed and nodded. The ride home was so short, but so, so long. They made sure that Nina got in her car, with the doors locked, and watched her leave first before getting in the truck. Ford insisted that he was fine enough to drive, he’d piloted ships on alien planets while far more inebriated than this, it was an insult to think he’d need a chaperone… Stan was already irritated to begin with, and he wasn’t about to take this from his own brother.

Stan and Nina each took a side to walk Ford into his apartment. They had left the couch bed unfolded. Nina sighed with relief, since Ford was not heavy but cumbersome, and drunk enough that he was almost asleep after the adrenaline had worn off on the ride home. Stan sat him down and went to grab some coffee, shaking his head as he lifted the mug to his lips. Over the rim, he watched as Nina playfully undressed Ford, divesting him of his coat and shirt. He made himself comfortable by flopping his face into her lap, his arm wrapped around her like she was a soft, warm, firm pillow. She was still sitting up, leaning back against the thin fabric, feeling the springs slightly sticking into her skin. As long as Ford was comfortable. She got so worried that he secretly hated her, or would just get sick of her one day, that it was hard to enjoy these small moments with him. She tried to breathe, running her hands over his skin gently, like a ritual to keep him ‘real’ and there with her.

Stan sat down on the other end of the bed, taking his shoes off at last. Nina watched his back, how his shoulders rolled forward, how the left one hung lower than the right- rotator cuff injury? Spinal damage? He needed a haircut again. It was getting shaggy in the back, but she really didn’t think he’d care.

“You been staring at me for a few minutes. What gives?”

Nina snapped out of her thoughts, tumultuous and ill-defined. “Ah… oh. Nothing. Just spaced out, I guess.”

Nodding, Stan checked up on her. She didn’t show her thoughts easily, and would shut down if confronted, like with that guy in the bar. “I’m gonna show you how to throw a punch soon as you’re off work tomorrow,” he said, not inviting refusal. He was dead-set on her learning to fight. She was a tiny woman, and lifting all of fifty pounds was not going to help her in a fight if she didn’t know how to use her body or train. He knew Nina had problems with food too, so if she really wanted to train with them, she’d have to start eating more proteins and a lot less plain cereal and rice. Tonight was proof. Maybe if she learned, she’d gain some self-confidence, too. Ford thought she had plenty, but Stan saw it differently: she knew how to imitate, how to compartmentalize, how to mimic people to make them like her (or at least overlook her). She didn’t know how to have confidence, she knew how to fake it. Something Ford could also stand to figure out. He did the same thing; it just looked different. Ford hid his insecurity in bravado, recklessness, and busy-ness without a real point.

“I work at night. It’s the holidays, so my days are free if I’m awake enough. I have the late-late night shift, eight to three AM,” she replied. She wasn’t sure if she’d be any good at fighting, but Stan she was picking up on pool pretty well, so maybe if he was the one teaching her… “I can probably be awake by noonish tomorrow. What time is it now? Ten?” She scratched her head, trying to figure out how long they were in the bar, or what the clock had said when she drove home.

“Nine-thirty. Time for me to be asleep. I only had the coffee to help sober up some more.” Stan got down to his boxers and tank, stretching his legs again before tossing his clothes into a pile, not stopping to fold them or put them in the hamper.

Ford turned onto his side, snoring in her lap, his arm wrapped around her legs as he kicked in his sleep. Nina ran her hand firmly down his back, digging her thumb into his shoulder in circles to massage the knots built into his muscle. “Should I just sleep here? I’m not sure I want to move him…” Stan couldn’t decide, so he shrugged, sprawled into the bed, and threw the blankets over himself. He was fast asleep, Nina without an answer. She hoped that Stan had locked the front door. Getting comfortable under Ford’s weight without disturbing him was not easy, but she did her best and tried to relax. She stole his pillow and put it against her back, burrowing as best she could into it for the warmth. Eventually, she knew, Ford would roll off of her, always restless when he slept, and she would either drag herself upstairs, or take a small piece of the bed next to him.

In minutes, she too was asleep.


End file.
